


Ineffable Advent Challenge 2019

by dragon_with_a_teacup



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Advent Calendar, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Homeless, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Retail, Alternate Universe - World War II, Baking, Charity worker Aziraphale, Christmas, Christmas Cookies, Christmas Music, Christmas Tree, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley and children, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley rants about Christmas songs, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dancing, Drinking, Drunk Crowley (Good Omens), Epistolary, Flirting, Flirty Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff, Flustered Aziraphale (Good Omens), Flustered Crowley (Good Omens), Gardener Aziraphale (Good Omens), Gardens & Gardening, Holidays, Homeless Crowley, Hot Chocolate, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Ice Skating, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, Knitting, Lower Tadfield (Good Omens), Marriage Proposal, Mistletoe, Multi, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Northern Lights, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Post-Scene: The Bandstand (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pub Quiz, Regency, Scene: The Bookshop Fire (Good Omens), Scotland, Snow and Ice, Snowball Fight, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), The Bentley - Freeform, The Blitz, World War II, choirs, iPhones, seduction via candy cane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 45,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21626617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_with_a_teacup/pseuds/dragon_with_a_teacup
Summary: My responses to drawlight's holiday advent challenge -- 31 standalone fics for 31 days, featuring lots of fluff, some angst, some AUs, all ineffable spouses!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 95
Kudos: 144





	1. Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> So I really will try to post one a day, but no promises. Also, I'm thrilled to be posting for this fandom for the first time, since my love for the ineffable husbands has consumed my life the last few months!
> 
> Thank you, [drawlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drawlight), for coming up with this challenge!

The South Downs, Crowley reflects, could not be more different from London. It’s quiet, soft, peaceful.

No wonder Aziraphale loves it here.

And to his great surprise, Crowley loves it here too. Or maybe it’s just Aziraphale he loves, and he has too much affection for that angel to contain within himself, so it has spilled out across the landscape, complementing its shades of sunlight and sea spray.

The years since they averted Armageddon have passed quickly, even though Crowley feels as if he has slowed down. He no longer spends his days planning where to put the next unexpected “right turn only” lane or sowing dissent within office printer networks—well, not as often, at least; everyone needs a hobby.

Now, most of his time is spent crouched under the pale sun with dirt under his fingernails and grass stains on his knees, or sprawled out on the couch with a mug in his hands and Aziraphale’s voice in his ear.

He’s glad for it. After six thousand years, he knows they both deserve a rest.

He put his sunglasses on and strides outside. He has some plants to yell at. More plants than ever, in fact: flowers, vines, vegetables, trees. His own Eden, all for him. Well, and one angel, though he spends most of his time cooing at the flowers and bumblebees than contributing anything useful, but that’s beside the point.

What matters is they’ve found a sanctuary here.

Crowley spends a few hours outside, inspecting each plant for any flaws. Winter will only worsen, and most of the plants are hibernating—with relief, he thinks, glad to get a break from him. Still, he finds plenty to do, even when the landscape isn’t exactly what one might call lush.

He’s raking the last few fallen leaves at the moment. The Arrangement has evolved since the End almost came; now, it’s less let’s-split-the-labor and more let’s-keep-us-safe. Miracles are only for their most dire emergencies, and given only to the most deserving (in Aziraphale’s case) or least deserving (in Crowley’s) of humans.

So, he clears away the leaves with an actual bloody rake.

At one point, he pauses to stretch, tilts his head back, and that’s when he sees it.

“What is that?” he asks, low and with a simmer of menace he knows will evoke a reaction. The tree above him cringes.

Crowley drops the rake and peers more intently. A clump of darker branches, adorned with small white berries, seems to be putting on as nonchalant an air as possible. _I’m not here, you can’t see me, la la la la la la_. As if such a facade will fool Crowley.

“Where did you come from,” he growls, then turns his attention to the tree. He lets his cadence slow down, mustering all the quiet malice he can. “Why have you allowed... an interloper... into our garden?”

The tree trembles, and Crowley glares. “You know this is unacceptable. I will not tolerate this!”

He raises his voice for the last few words, and bares his teeth in triumph when the tree flinches so hard its branches creak and groan.

“Crowley, what are you doing to that poor oak tree?”

His aggression vanishes, and he turns. An exasperated smile rises unbidden to the surface. “It’s a _hawthorn,_ Aziraphale. It doesn’t look anything like an oak. Did you learn nothing during your years as the Dowlings’ gardener?”

Aziraphale approaches, hands in his trouser pockets and his shirtsleeves rolled up. He’s been cooking, his new hobby of late. Crowley approves, not only because he gets to see Aziraphale dressed so casually (for him) but he often gets to taste the remnants of Aziraphale’s latest creations on the angel’s lips.

“Of course I did,” Aziraphale replies. “I know that shrieking at them doesn’t benefit them.”

Crowley makes a garbled noise of offense. “Shrieking? I don’t shriek. Besides, I’m teaching them valuable lessons.”

Aziraphale nods, a yes-dear sort of nod that should put Crowley on edge but instead makes him soften in spite of himself. “I’m certain you are. Now, what’s the problem? Supper is nearly ready.”

“The problem?” Crowley half-laughs. “You can’t tell?” He points upward, the motion like a malediction. “ _That_ is the problem.”

Aziraphale looks and raises an eyebrow. “Mistletoe? What’s wrong with that?”

“Wha— you— are you seriously asking me that?” Crowley sputters, appalled. Honestly, Aziraphale really does know nothing about botany. It’s a wonder anything survived at the Dowling residence.

“It’s rather pretty.”

“Pretty? It’s a _parasite_!”

“Nonsense!” Aziraphale’s voice has gone gentle, the voice he uses when talking to an animal, or a plant, or a baby, or... well, okay, many things. But Crowley doesn’t want to hear it here, addressing a sodding parasite.

“I’m going to cut it off,” he resolves. This is ridiculous, all of it. His garden is pristine, even when the leaves are brown and withered. The trees understand this; perfection is paramount.

“Oh, Crowley—”

“Nope, too late. Where’s the ladder?”

“Don’t you remember what it means? Mistletoe? What it symbolizes?”

Crowley frowns. “Why does that matter?”

“It means peace and protection.”

That gives him pause. “I thought it was something to do with... Christian holidays, yeah?”

“Yes, Christmas too. It’s all rather romantic, really.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Oh, it’s a romantic parasite, of course.” He glances up and addresses the green and white monster in his tree. “My apologies, good sir, it seems you’re romantic, so you simply must stay. So terribly sorry for the _misunderstanding_.”

Aziraphale purses his lips. “You’re mocking me, my dear.”

Crowley swallows. “No,” he says, softer. “Not really. But it’s not healthy for the tree. I need to cut it off.”

“At least let it stay until Christmas is over?”

Crowley scowls. “It’s unsightly and poisonous.”

Aziraphale has stepped closer, and Crowley leans in. His need for Aziraphale to be near still manages to surprise him, but his angel is an addiction, one he’s unwilling to quit.

“I suspect you once would have said the same thing about yourself,” Aziraphale says. “But you and I both know that’s not true.” And then he is kissing Crowley, cupping his jaw and tangling their tongues, right underneath the mistletoe.

Crowley sinks into the kiss in spite of himself, relaxing. He’s reminded suddenly why he loves it here. Because out here he gets his desires, his angel gets his comforts, and they both get their peace.

Aziraphale pulls back with one final peck to Crowley’s lips. His cheeks are flushed pink, which is likely not just from the chill air.

“Th—that was quite a kiss,” Crowley says.

“Mistletoe kisses tend to be like that.” Aziraphale shrugs, though the bastard does look awfully pleased with himself.

“Do they?”

“Well, I suppose I don’t actually know. That’s the first one I’ve had.”

Crowley hesitates, and glances up at the parasite once more. “Perhaps we should test it again sometime. See how it compares.”

Aziraphale nods, starting to smile in that way he has that’s just adjacent to cheeky. “We should. But for now, time to eat.”

He takes Crowley’s hand and leads him back toward the cottage. Crowley follows, but he glances back. Gives a nod to the interloper— _fine, you win. Make a home in the garden too_.


	2. Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-canon. On the way to the cottage, Crowley gets in trouble, but Aziraphale is always there to help.

Crowley opens his eyes. He’s in the Bentley, but all he sees outside is white.

“What…?” he asks no one in particular.

Then, the memories start to come back to him. Leaving London a while ago, making his way into the countryside with their last few belongings. Being glad about finally, officially, moving into their cottage. Watching the sky as it opens up and sends snow falling yet again, the third snowstorm in as many days. Grumbling about the worsening conditions.

Hitting a hidden patch of ice. Veering off the road before he can correct. Seeing the hillside in front of him, and then—nothing.

Has he been unconscious? The idea unsettles him. How long has he been out? It can’t have been very long, as the snow hasn’t melted around the still-running engine, and his CD hasn’t reached the end yet.

Still. This isn’t exactly ideal.

“F—fuck,” he gasps.

He can’t see the front of the Bentley; it’s covered by a mound of snow taller than he is. He can hear the engine groaning in protest, and winces in sympathy.

Then, he winces in pain, and lifts his hand to his forehead, where it smacked against the window when the car crashed. He isn’t bleeding, but suspects he will have a bruise. Damn human body.

The fear doesn’t set in until he tries to open the door—and finds he can’t. The car has wedged in the snowdrift enough that it’s blocking his doors.

“No,” he breathes, shoving against it. “No, please—”

In that moment, he forgets he’s a demon, and can magic his way out of this. His head aches, and his mind is spinning, and the Bentley is half-buried in snow, and he can’t get out, he’s stuck, he can’t get out— 

Aziraphale.

He ignores how his hands tremble as he struggles for his phone. Is it already getting colder in here, or is he imagining things?

The ringing of the phone feels interminable. “Come on, come on,” he mutters.

“Hello, dear!” Aziraphale answers after the third ring. “Are you almost home?”

“A—Angel,” he stammers. “I…” He trails off, trying to swallow back his fright.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, concerned, “are you all right? What’s happened?”

“Er…” He tries to laugh, but it comes out far too shaky to be convincing. “Well, it’s a thing.”

“Where are you? What’s wrong?” He can hear noises on the other end of the call, as if Aziraphale is moving across the room, gathering his coat.

“I, erm… in the snow?”

“What?”

“There was… was ice on the road. Crashed.”

“Oh, my dearest. Are you hurt? How far are you from home?”

Crowley lets out a small, involuntary sound. “I… think about fifteen minutes? ’M not sure. Why?”

“I’m on my way. Hold on.”

“Wait, I—” Panic, horrid illogical panic, surges up again. “Will you stay on the phone with me?”

There’s a second of silence on the other end, and Crowley curses himself. “Sorry, no it’s fine. I’m okay. I’m okay.”

“Don’t be silly, of course I’m staying on the phone.” Crowley hears the front door close, with its distinctive creak that he’d found annoying but Aziraphale had found charming, for some reason. “I’m right here.”

Crowley sighs shakily. “No, really, it’s fine—”

“Crowley. Just hold on.”

He nods, then remembers Aziraphale can’t see him. “Okay.”

Aziraphale keeps up a constant stream of soft assurances over the next several minutes. Listening to him, Crowley steadies his breaths. His door still will not budge, but the knowledge that Aziraphale is on his way makes the entire situation less unnerving.

His sense has just begun to return—and with it, the realization that he can snap his fingers and get out of this—when the Bentley jolts without warning. Crowley startles and gasps, as the car creeps backward out of the snowdrift. Creaks and groans and pops tell him any damage and dents are disappearing, and the engine’s sound shifts to something less of complaint and distress.

Crowley, shoulders slumping in relief, twists around and sees his beloved.

Aziraphale’s wings glow brighter than even the snow around him. He folds them behind his back, but doesn’t bother to hide them entirely. Concern verging on terror is painted on his face as he darts forward and pulls the car door open.

“Crowley,” he whispers, and his hands on Crowley are a potent comfort. “Darling, come here.”

He helps him climb out of the car, and then they’re hugging. Aziraphale’s arms and wings both envelop him, and he relaxes.

“All right, all right, Angel, I’m fine,” he says, trying to put on an air of nonchalance.

“I know, just… you… worried me.”

Crowley flinches guiltily. “Sorry. You know how I get when the Bentley’s in trouble.”

Aziraphale leans back, and his fingers brush against the smarting spot on Crowley’s head. There are snowflakes caught in his hair, and Crowley finds himself wanting to kiss them. “But you’re not badly hurt?”

He shrugs. “Nah. You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Angel.”

Aziraphale chuckles. His lips on Crowley’s temple, then on his lips, are a balm to Crowley’s rattled nerves. “Come on, my dear. Let’s go home.”

They separate and climb inside the Bentley, which seems to be purring in contentment now. When they pull back onto the road and Aziraphale takes his hand, Crowley thinks, but doesn’t say, that he doesn’t need to go anywhere to be home.


	3. Nutcracker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale comes home to the cottage one day to a surprising sight.

Aziraphale pushes the door of their cottage open, his arms laden with shopping bags. A few snowflakes sweep in behind him, and he sighs in relief at the warmth inside.

“I’m home—” he starts to say, then stops. Music is playing from his gramophone, music he recognizes.

Who is in the house, and what have they done with Anthony J. Crowley? Because surely, surely, Crowley is not listening to the Nutcracker.

Aziraphale moves toward the kitchen, where the music emanates from, and peers around the corner. His lips part in shock, but also in delighted amusement.

Crowley is standing in the kitchen, wearing an apron, bending over a skillet, and _dancing_.

Granted, it isn’t good dancing, more like awkward swaying and offbeat hopping and uncoordinated arm motions. However, Aziraphale has never seen Crowley dance, and to see him like this now… Well, Aziraphale is captivated by him all over again.

The current song is the Russian Dance, and it’s nearly over. As quietly as he can, Aziraphale sets down the bags and leans against the doorway to watch. Crowley hasn’t noticed him, too busy humming along and jumping about in front of the stove in time with the rapid orchestrations. 

His hips give a final pop with the last note, and Aziraphale grins. The next song begins, but he can’t help himself; he lifts an eyebrow and says, “Since when are you a fan of Tchaikovsky?”

Crowley yelps in surprise and spins on his heel, almost sending the skillet crashing to the floor. “Oh, A—Angel! I… didn’t see you there.” His face has gone as red as his hair. “I’m… er… glad you’re home. Making that thing you like, with the pasta, y’know, for dinner. Uh…” He flails his arms, as if seeking some new topic of conversation.

Aziraphale bites down on a sour taste of guilt. He didn’t want to embarrass Crowley. So, before he can feel too self-conscious about it, performs a simple plié—the single dance move he knows, outside of the gavotte. “Perhaps I could join you? What’s it called, a pas de deux?”

Crowley, if possible, blushes harder. “I…” He turns and furiously stirs the onions and garlic he’s sauteing. Aziraphale notices his neck has gone red as well, and steps over to hug him from behind.

“Don’t feel ashamed for enjoying yourself, dear.”

“’M not,” Crowley mutters. He shifts but doesn’t pull away from Aziraphale. “I… well, I don’t know why—and I’m not going to think about it too much—but watching you do… that… makes me want to take off all your clothes.”

Now, it’s Aziraphale’s turn to blush. He can feel the heat rising to his cheeks, and buries his face in the crook of Crowley’s neck. This shouldn’t still feel new, after years of knowing what it’s like to be treasured, adored, cherished by Crowley. And yet it does; it feels marvelous and unprecedented, every time Crowley speaks of how he wants Aziraphale, of how he loves Aziraphale. “Oh. Well. I… We should at least finish listening to the Nutcracker!”

Crowley chuckles, all his mortification seeming to evaporate. “That wasn’t a no.”

Aziraphale laughs and kisses Crowley’s shoulder. He liked Tchaikovsky before, but now he has an entirely new appreciation for him.


	4. Cranberry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley, wanting never to lose contact with Aziraphale again, after the bookshop fire, suggests his angel gets a smart phone.

“I have a proposition for you.”

Aziraphale lifts an eyebrow, and he looks over his shoulder at Crowley, whose eyes widen as he realizes what he has just said.

“No, wait, er… not like _that_ —” He flails a hand, then again with more urgency when Aziraphale tilts his head and starts to smile. “I mean, yeah, that too, in a general I’m-always-up-for-that sense. But… dammit, Angel, I’m trying to start a serious conversation with you, can you… not…?”

Aziraphale chuckles. He attaches the last section of fairy lights to the edge of the bookshelf, plugs them in so cheerful holiday twinkling fills the shop, then twists around on the ladder to face Crowley. “You’re right, I’m sorry. What is it?”

“Well…” Crowley crosses his arms, ducks his head, and seems to momentarily lose his nerve. Aziraphale takes the opportunity to admire his hair. He’s grown it out since they averted the end of the world, and at the moment has it tied back in a bun that simply begs to be tugged loose.

“Come now, my dear. What is it?”

“Well, after, y’know, the fire here and all… I’d like to have a reliable way to get in touch with you when we’re apart. And, it’s the time of year when humans give each other gifts, right? So I reckon I can get a good deal on the… thing.” Crowley shrugs, as if he isn’t obviously quite invested in this.

“What thing?”

“I’m getting you a cell phone.”

Aziraphale freezes, foot hovering between two of the ladder’s rungs. “I beg your pardon?”

“It makes sense! I wanna make sure you’re safe, you know?” Then, Crowley smiles in that soft way he has, the smile that only Aziraphale is allowed to see. “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you how to use it.”

“I don’t know… They’re so modern—”

“That’s what you said about the gramophone, the steam train, the radio, and the telegraph, if I remember correctly,” Crowley points out, irksome in his accuracy.

Aziraphale sighs. He can tell this could turn into a years-long debate. “Oh, very well. I will _try_ it.”

Crowley’s relieved smile makes his nervousness almost worth it.

— — —

Three days later, Aziraphale already wants to dispose of this blasted object. “But where’s the back button?” he asks, wishing that shaking the phone would help.

“Just twitch the screen down a little. It’s the arrow at the bottom.”

“Why can’t there be, I don’t know, a real button?”

“Hey, I’m not in charge.”

Aziraphale does figure it out, and navigates back to the google, then shuts the screen off. At least he can do that. It’s a real button, after all. “Well, I’m not sure about this.”

“Angel, you’ve had this for less than a day. At least give yourself some time to get used to it.”

Crowley slumps deeper into the couch, twirling his own phone between his slender fingers. Aziraphale does _not_ let himself be mesmerized by that, thank you very much. He scowls. “Fine. For you. However, I don’t see what the fuss is about these Cranberry things.”

Crowley frowns. “These what?”

“Cranberries…” Aziraphale feels self-conscious. “That’s what they’re called, aren’t they? Or, no, sorry it’s a Blackberry, isn’t it? My mistake.”

Crowley stammers in a rather horrified way. “Aziraphale… I love you terribly, but I can’t let you say such things. A Blackberry is a different phone.”

“Oh, so I was right the first time!” Aziraphale grins, pleased. “It’s a Cranberry iPhone.”

For some reason, Crowley’s eye twitches. He tilts his head against the back of the couch, smiling when Aziraphale brushes a loose lock of hair off his forehead. “Yeah, sure.”


	5. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley isn't as recovered from the bookshop fire as he thought.

One evening, Aziraphale hears someone push on the locked door of the bookshop, and smiles.

“So sorry, I’m afraid we’re closed,” he calls.

“It’s me, angel,” a disgruntled Crowley yells back. “Let me in!”

“Oh!” Aziraphale bustles over to the door and slides back the deadbolt. “Hello, my dear! I didn’t expect to see you.”

Crowley slouches in, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over the nearest object, which happens to be a rickety table laden with books. It gives a creak of protest, but Crowley shoots it a glare to silence it.

“How’s things here?” Crowley asks, picking up a novel at random and dropping it carelessly on a shelf when he finds it not to his liking. “Sell anything today?”

“Thank goodness, no.” Aziraphale follows him, re-shelving the books in their proper homes.

Crowley nods. Something about his posture, though, puts Aziraphale on edge. “Is everything all right?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. Fine.” Crowley’s hands fidget with the book jacket of Aziraphale’s T. S. Eliot collection. “Wondered if you maybe wanted to have a drink with me.”

Aziraphale softens. “I’d love to.”

They retreat to the couch in the corner of the bookshop. Aziraphale retrieves the mulled wine he prepared earlier in the day and pours them each a cup. Crowley drops his sunglasses on the arm of the couch—a true sign he’s comfortable here, Aziraphale fancies—and downs his wine in a startlingly short amount of time.

“You know it was over five years ago,” he says.

Aziraphale knows. He’s been thinking about it all day.

Over five years since the day after what should have been the end. Over five years since the day Aziraphale had climbed into a tub of holy water and grinned. Over five years since that night when, having escaped their fates against the many odds stacked against them, Crowley leaned in and kissed him in this very bookshop.

But… probably more notably, it’s been _nearly_ five years since Crowley whispered three words against Aziraphale’s lips during that kiss, a confession that tasted of alcohol and smoke and delicious temptation. Nearly five years since Crowley broke off their kiss as if just realizing what he said, stared at Aziraphale with wide eyes, then turned on his heel and fled.

Nearly five years since they discussed anything about Armageddon, the day after, those kisses, and that months-later, kiss-driven confession.

“I remember,” Aziraphale says.

He drains his drink as well.

Crowley seems to have lost his nerve to talk about anything of substance, so they discuss trivial matters while drinking their second servings.

Yet even as they talk and drink and even manage to laugh, part of Aziraphale’s mind is lost to remembrance. The way Crowley’s mouth felt against his that first night, as if they had been created for nothing else but kissing each other. The way they still occasionally reach for each other like that, wordless but with innumerable emotions thrumming beneath their skin.

“Goodness, but it’s cold in here,” Aziraphale says after a while, in a desperate attempt to distract himself. “I don’t know how you’ve stood it for so long. You should have said something.”

“Oh, I’m a snake. Cold-blooded, y’know.”

Aziraphale looks askance. “I’m not certain you know how reptilian biology works, my dear.”

Crowley scoffs, but Aziraphale ignores him in favor of kneeling before the small hearth. He arranges the wood in some semblance of order, then takes the box of matches from its place in the desk drawer. He could miracle a flame to life, but in the five years since they almost lost their lives, Aziraphale has been avoiding miracles unless absolutely necessary. Best not to perform too many frivolous ones; it wouldn’t do to invite scrutiny, after all, when he finds himself rather passionately kissing a demon on occasion.

Over five years, his mind reminds him again, unbidden. Over five years since they almost died, and since the first time Crowley’s lips touched his, and he still shivers at the thought. _Honestly, Aziraphale, compose yourself_ , he thinks.

He strikes the match against the box and drops it into the dry logs. The flames sputter to life, cracking and popping as they seep into the wood.

He senses more than hears Crowley’s sharp intake of breath. “A—Angel, no!” he gasps.

Aziraphale whirls, just as Crowley’s cup drops to the floor and shatters. Crowley has gone stiff, staring in horror at him. His chest rises and falls rapidly, and Aziraphale senses sudden, abject panic rolling off him.

“Dear, what is it?” He starts to stand, but hesitates, unsure of what is happening.

A long pause, and then, in a shaking voice, Crowley whispers, “I… I…”

He seems to curl in on himself. The realization that his hands are shaking, Crowley is shaking, Crowley is _trembling_ , propels Aziraphale forward. He races back to the sofa and places a tentative hand on Crowley’s arm, then around his shoulders when he isn’t thrown off.

“Crowley,” he whispers, “my love, can you talk to me?”

He’s still shaking, small tremors, but he sags into Aziraphale’s embrace and shakes his head.

“All right,” Aziraphale says. “All right.” His mind races, reels, reaches for a solution, something he can do that will fix this… whatever this is. He cannot fathom what has so affected Crowley. What has Aziraphale done wrong?

“Just… breathe,” he says. That’s what humans say, isn’t it? He’s heard it time and again throughout history, when someone is upset or in pain. Angels and demons don’t really _need_ to breathe like the humans, but in this moment, Crowley has never seemed more human to him. “Breathe, Crowley. It’s all right.”

A noise then, a soft one, like the mewling of a cat. It practically rends Aziraphale in two. “Shh,” he says, not sure that’s helpful, but not knowing what else to say. “Hush, my darling.”

Crowley’s trembling is subsiding, but his breaths are shaky and uneven. Through some instinct he didn’t know he possesses, Aziraphale starts rubbing his back. The slow rhythm seems to help, but it is many minutes before he feels any amount of calm from Crowley.

At last, Crowley lifts his head and glances at Aziraphale, though he doesn’t meet his eyes. “I… sorry about that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You needn’t apologize.” Aziraphale runs his fingers through Crowley’s hair and lets his hand come to rest on Crowley’s jaw.

“I don’t really know where that came from.”

“Does it have to come from somewhere?”

Crowley lets out a quiet laugh, though it’s mostly an exhalation. “Maybe not.”

Before Aziraphale can stop himself, before he can think better of giving into his whim, he kisses Crowley’s forehead. “Can you tell me what you need?”

“Erm…” He swallows. “Dunno. But this… this is good.” He gestures feebly between them.

Right, well. Aziraphale can certainly handle that. He shifts, pulling Crowley into a more comfortable embrace. Crowley settles against his chest, letting out a long sigh that Aziraphale is relieved to hear carries no trace of fear.

“Do you want more mulled wine?” he asks, wanting to be useful, wanting to do something concrete. He feels adrift and ineffectual; he has never wanted to perform a miracle so badly as he did in the last few minutes.

Crowley nods, and Aziraphale leans forward to retrieve his own cup. The broken pieces of Crowley’s are on the floor, but neither of them acknowledge the mess, just pass the second cup between them.

After a while, Aziraphale glances down at Crowley’s face. He’s staring into the flames in the hearth, a small crease between his eyebrows.

As if sensing Aziraphale’s scrutiny, he speaks. “I thought it was hellfire.”

“What? No, it’s just—”

“Not this fire,” Crowley says. “The fire… five years ago. Here. The fire that… y’know, that the Antichrist kid. Adam. He magicked it away, but… that fire.”

“Oh.” Sometimes, Aziraphale forgets this bookshop was once destroyed, before reality was reset. If it hadn’t been for Adam’s additions to the inventory, he would have never noticed. For him, the fire was a fleeting thought, especially in the midst of impending doom of those whirlwind days. 

Sometimes, Aziraphale forgets the fire was anything but fleeting for Crowley.

“Yeah.” Crowley shifts, but not to pull away. He turns a bit onto his side, so that he can sling an arm across Aziraphale’s chest and trail his fingers down the buttons of his vest. “I tried to find you in here, but… well, obviously couldn’t. You’d discorporated already, but…”

“You thought you lost me. For good.” Aziraphale remembers now, in that dingy pub, how broken Crowley had sounded.

 _Stuff happened. I lost my best friend_.

“Mmhmm.” Crowley nods.

“Well.” Aziraphale clears his throat, though he feels weary and pained. “Not to worry. I’m here.”

“Yes,” Crowley drawls, and Aziraphale thrills at it. “I know that.”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says, “if I… did anything wrong just now…”

“Don’t be daft, Angel. Didn’t we just say I don’t need a reason to… well, panic?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Then don’t worry your pretty head about it.”

Aziraphale chuckles, surprised by the phrase. Crowley laughs too, a tired but still beautiful sound.

It occurs to Aziraphale then that… they don’t do this. Hold each other, without certain expectations of where such contact will lead. Touches like this have a context, and this isn’t it. Normally, any other night, they might have drank every drop of the mulled wine until they were tasting the remnants on each other’s tongues. They might have put their arms around each other, but only to remove clothes. They might have kissed, but only in the midst of all the rest of it.

He wonders, though not for the first time these last five years, what it would be like to simply… remove the usual context. To kiss Crowley without expectations, to put his arms around Crowley solely to feel him close. He thinks it would be… good. More than good.

Truly, he thinks it would be catastrophic in the best way, and he longs for it.

He has had almost five years to wonder what that would be like to have Crowley in every way, not just one. He has had almost five years to wonder if he can ever echo Crowley’s confession back. He doesn’t wonder anymore.

“You, er…” Crowley says suddenly, then clears his throat and makes a wordless sound.

“I what?” Aziraphale asks, his courage receding somewhat. He wants to say something, wants to ask Crowley what it means that they are holding each other like this. He wants to know why Crowley let him kiss him on the forehead, and if he would let him do it again.

“Y—you called me ‘love,’ earlier.”

Aziraphale can’t reply, mind rewinding the past few minutes. Had he said that? When? And… oh, it seems he did.

“Yes…” he says slowly.

“Why?” Crowley twists to gaze up at him, and Aziraphale is astonished to see such intense _hope_ within his amber eyes. Aziraphale could get lost in them, though he’s never allowed himself to before.

He smiles. “Well, it’s the truth.”

Crowley’s exhale is shaky again, but his lips are turning upward. “Angel”—his hand finds Aziraphale’s and squeezes—“do you mean that?”

“I… well, yes.” Heat rushes to his cheeks; he can only hope his blush isn’t visible. “I’m sorry, I know this isn’t… part of the…”

“Part of the what?” Crowley sits up and turns so he can still face Aziraphale. “You don’t think all… this… has been part of the Arrangement?”

“No,” Aziraphale says, a little frantic at the mere idea.

“Good, because it’s not!” The urgency in Crowley’s voice surprises him. “I—I just… didn’t want to push you.”

“What?” Aziraphale frowns.

Crowley ducks his head, and he’s breathing a bit hard again. Aziraphale starts to worry he’s panicking again, but then Crowley looks up and their gazes meet.

“I s’pose I should have said something,” Crowley says, “but I didn’t wanna… y’know, mess this up.”

“What should you have said?” Aziraphale coaxes. Hope is swelling within him, and he reaches out to touch Crowley again, to feel the soft skin of his hands.

“Look, remember that time I told you… something? You know, the thing? I… still mean it. But you said I go too fast, and so… I’ve tried to slow down.”

The words are a shot of adrenaline straight into Aziraphale. He freezes, the words looping inside his mind. “My dear, what do you mean? It’s not as if we don’t… you know, have a _relationship_.”

Crowley hisses in frustration, and Aziraphale tries not to find it strangely attractive. “Not what I mean. I mean—I didn’t think you were ready to hear… that thing. I shouldn’t have said it in the first place, and I’m sorry, but…” That hope is shining out of his eyes again, like hellfire or heavenly glow and yet entirely his own. “If you meant it when you called me ‘love,’ then—”

“I do love you, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes.

They stare at each other for a long moment, those words reverberating between them. And then Crowley grins, a smile of such unfiltered joy that Aziraphale simply has to kiss him.

He can feel the residual stress and anxiety within Crowley being overridden by what he can only term _happiness_.

“We’re fools, aren’t we?” he says, pressing the words into Crowley’s mouth.

“Mmm, yeah. Idiotic.” Crowley moves, climbing practically all the way on Aziraphale’s lap. His slender fingers work at the buttons of Aziraphale’s vest, then his shirt, exposing skin. With a triumphant smirk, he slides his lips over Aziraphale’s collarbones. “Say it again, Angel.”

“Say what?” Aziraphale feels giddy, breathless, exhilarated.

“You _know_ what!”

Aziraphale laughs. “I love you.”

He wraps his arms around Crowley, not only to pull his shirt out of his trousers, but also simply to hold him. He kisses Crowley, not only as a prelude to other things, but also simply to make him smile.

“I love you too, Aziraphale,” Crowley says. “My Angel.”


	6. Sleigh Bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley rants about Christmas music. I'm not projecting my own feelings on him at all.

Crowley’s hand tightens without warning on Aziraphale’s, and when Aziraphale turns to look, he sees that his teeth are gritted in frustration.

“What’s wrong, my dear?” he asks. They dodge around a cluster of slow-walking shoppers, and Aziraphale wonders again why they decided to walk home after dinner. December is perhaps the worst time of the year to be out and about in the tourist-heavy areas of London. However, they had both been quite tipsy, and decided to walk it off in order to enjoy the crisp evening air.

Not that there’s much enjoyment happening, apparently.

“If I have to hear another version of this song,” Crowley says, his words still a little slurred, “I will not be held responsible for my actions, because I will have lost my mind and destroyed something.”

Aziraphale frowns and strains to hear whatever music Crowley is referring to. He recognizes it quickly, that one song about riding a sleigh. It’s a cheery one, he has always thought.

“It’s not so bad—” he tries, to Crowley levels such a withering look at him that he falls silent. It’s clear Crowley needs to rant about this, and when he gets like this, the best policy is to just let it happen.

“It’s awful,” Crowley declares. “Honestly, it’s as if humans forget all their creativity and ingenuity when it comes to this genre of music. All they can do it copy the same dozen songs with increasing amounts of synthesized instruments and autotune, then play them ad nauseam. Why can’t they write new music about Christmas? Surely they can; they constantly write new songs about sex and love. It’s not like these songs are part of their religious texts, really.”

“They do sing some of them in church,” Aziraphale feels obligated to point out.

Crowley shakes his head. “I mean, it wouldn’t be blasphemous to write some new bloody lyrics, would it? Honestly, _sing something better!_ ” He shouts the last sentence at a speaker of a nearby department store, which is playing yet another version of the sleigh song.

A few people on the sidewalk with them give Crowley sidelong, suspicious looks, and Aziraphale quickly tightens his grip. “Come on,” he urges. “Let’s go home. There’s no need to make a scene.”

“I wonder which demon is responsible for all these bad versions,” Crowley says, chest heaving. Luckily, he allows himself to be pulled away. Aziraphale ducks his head to avoid the scrutinizing gazes of the humans, and sighs to himself when Crowley continues. “I bet it was Hastur. Or, ooh, actually, Beelzebub might have done this. They’ve always been ruthless like this.”

“Do you really hate all Christmas songs?” Aziraphale asks, resisting the urge to unfurl his wings and drag Crowley home that way. He’s still talking too loudly.

“Pretty much, yeah.” Crowley scowls, fuming. Something about the set of his mouth, though, manages to amuse Aziraphale in spite of himself. Crowley is truly ridiculous sometimes, but Aziraphale cannot imagine existing without him.

“But…” He smiles, infusing his tone with just the right amount of innocence. “But what if all I want for Christmas is you?”

Crowley halts in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing Aziraphale to stop as well. He turns, and sees the frustrated set of Crowley’s mouth. But he also sees the faint blush on Crowley’s cheeks, and suppresses a triumphant grin.

“Fine!” Crowley grumbles. “That _one_ song is allowed. And only that one version you like. All the others are hereby forbidden. And if you ever mention the stupid sleigh song, I will crash the Bentley through the bookshop.”

Aziraphale snorts. As if Crowley would ever harm his precious car deliberately. Still, he’ll let Crowley win this one. So he squeezes his hand and tugs him along toward home. “Yes, dear.”


	7. Silent Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nanny Ashtoreth and Gardener Francis meet up one winter night in the Dowlings' garden.

Aziraphale opens the door of the greenhouse to find Crowley standing before him.

“You got any alcohol?”

Aziraphale chuckles. “Warlock’s gone then?”

An exhausted nod. “His friend’s mum just picked him up. I think my ears are ringing.”

Crowley’s still wearing a skirt, blouse, and heels, even though it’s nearly eleven. But then, Aziraphale watched the entire household conscripted in the intense Christmas decorating that occurred today, so it’s no wonder there’s been no time to change clothes. Especially since Warlock has been a ball of manic energy for two days. This is the first year he’s really been able to actually anticipate the holidays, after all. Aziraphale has heard him across the grounds, calling for Nanny to read another Christmas story, or to tell him how the reindeer fly.

“I have a bottle of wine in my quarters,” Aziraphale says. “Why don’t you meet me in the garden?”

Crowley nods, shoulders slumping in relief. “You’re an Angel.”

“Well, yes.”

Crowley fixes Aziraphale with a half-exasperated, half-amused look. “Y’know what I mean.”

They part, and Aziraphale retrieves the wine. When he gets back outside with the bottle and a blanket, he finds Crowley on the stone steps on the lawn. The trees and hedges all around are adorned with fairy lights, which Aziraphale had strung today.

“Looks nice, Angel,” Crowley says once Aziraphale nears.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale grins, puffing up at the praise. He’s missed Crowley; they both have been so busy the last fortnight, and they can’t exactly be obvious about their friendship. Their head offices are surely scrutinizing their movements when Warlock is around, after all.

He sits down, shifting Crowley’s discarded heels to the side. “Here you are, dear.” He hands the wine and corkscrew to Crowley, who tries in vain to open it before moaning piteously and handing it back.

“Angelllll, please, I’m tired.”

Aziraphale chuckles and unscrews the cork. He hadn’t bothered to bring glasses, sensing Crowley’s mood—and indeed, Crowley gulps straight from the bottle before setting it down (half-empty) and leaning back on the steps.

“Aziraphale, have I told you lately that I adore you?”

“Oh, hush.” Blood rushes to his face. “It’s only wine.”

To hide his face, he unfolds the blanket, drapes it across his and Crowley’s shoulders, and pulls it around them. Crowley sighs in contentment and shifts closer. Aziraphale leans on Crowley’s shoulder.

 _I’ve missed you_ , he thinks. _I know we shouldn’t be friends, but I… notice when you’re not around._

“’S not only the wine,” Crowley says. “Everything feels… dunno, calmer, safer, when you’re around.”

“You’re only saying that because Warlock’s gone for the night and it’s quiet for the first time in days.” Aziraphale chuckles.

“Mmm, no ’m not.” Crowley’s head comes to rest on top of Aziraphale’s, and their hands brush under the blanket.

They fall silent then, relaxing in the crisp winter air. It _is_ calm, here with Crowley. For the first time since Warlock was born, Aziraphale feels a sense of peace.


	8. Choir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale walk by a church, and Aziraphale wonders if Crowley ever misses heaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my time zone, it is still the 8th, so I'm technically not late! :)

There’s a church near Crowley’s flat. Aziraphale has taken note; though he’s not exactly on good terms with his superiors after Tadfield, he’s still an angel. It seems to be a good place, safe and clean. But that’s all he has noticed until now.

Tonight, he and Crowley are walking home, and they pass the church. They’re on the other side of the street on Aziraphale’s insistence—he cannot abide even the faintest possibility that Crowley might be in pain near the consecrated ground. From the church, though, he can hear singing. The place’s doors are thrown wide open to let people in and out, and the choral music is filtering out into the crisp evening air. They’re quite good, too, and Aziraphale smiles, soaking in the harmonies.

Crowley turns his head toward the noise, and the streetlight makes his hair glow as they pass under it. Abruptly, Aziraphale wonders what he was like before he Fell. Surely just as beautiful.

He doesn’t miss the brief wistful look in Crowley’s eyes as he listens to the music.

Aziraphale tightens his grip on Crowley’s hand. “Lovely, isn’t it? They’re quite talented.”

After a moment, Crowley smirks, though it seems more like a performance than usual. “You and your celestial harmonies.”

Aziraphale smiles, and they walk on. But he does not fail to observe the preoccupation that lingers on Crowley’s face.

— — —

The next evening, Aziraphale finds Crowley curled up on his couch, contorted in a way that only a being who sometimes is a snake could accomplish. He makes space for Aziraphale, though, and smiles when Aziraphale kisses his forehead.

“I’d like to go somewhere tonight.”

Crowley lifts an eyebrow. “Oh? Where?”

“It’s a surprise.”

He tilts his head, smirking. “What are you up to?”

Aziraphale grins. “You’ll see.”

So they rise, locate coats, and step out into the evening air. The sky is lit up orange that fades rapidly to navy as they drive, Aziraphale providing directions. He knows, a few minutes from their destination, that Crowley can’t possibly not know by now where they’re going. But Crowley doesn’t question him, only allows him to lead them. They leave the Bentley, then head into the park. Up ahead, a small crowd is gathering around the bandstand, where once Aziraphale had spat words he regrets to this day.

“What are we doing here?” Crowley asks. He sounds a bit on edge, but Aziraphale squeezes his hand.

“There’s a choir performing here tonight,” is all he says in explanation. But the look Crowley gives him—a mixture of incredulity, wonder, and gratitude—tells him that Crowley understands what this is about.

They join the small audience standing around the bandstand. The choir is preparing, and Aziraphale shifts closer to Crowley as they wait. Without a word, Crowley slips his arm around Aziraphale’s waist.

The choir are holding candles, and a member of the same church is handing additional ones out to those in the audience. Aziraphale gets his lit first, then offers it to Crowley, who holds his own unlit taper out, so that both catch and cast warm light over them both.

In the moment their eyes lock, the choir starts singing, and their attention is reluctantly diverted from each other. It’s a typical hymn, one Aziraphale knows by heart, but it sounds somehow even better outdoors, under the roof of the bandstand. Crowley leans into him, and Aziraphale presses back, smiling.

Once the hymn is over, the choir launches into an upbeat Christmas medley. Several of the audience members sing along, but Crowley and Aziraphale stay silent, swaying slightly to the beat.

The choir sings a few more songs over the next half an hour. Aziraphale is grateful it isn’t too cold tonight—though had it been, he wouldn’t have complained about getting to hold Crowley even closer than he is now.

The performance ends with a long sustained note, multilayered and resounding. It sends chills up Aziraphale’s spine, and Crowley’s hand tightens on his shoulder. When the last echo fades, the audience bursts into applause, and the choir waves and bows.

The next few minutes, everyone disperses—the choir packs up to leave, the audience filters away to wander through the lantern-lit park or to head home in the cool winter breeze. Crowley and Aziraphale linger, a tacit agreement. The former leans against one of the bandstand’s support pillars, the picture of nonchalance that Aziraphale both envies and desires to shatter with a kiss.

“You…” Crowley begins, then swallows. His arms are crossed, and he watches his feet as he speaks. “You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

“Why do you think I had a reason to do this? I wanted to hear the performance,” Aziraphale deflects.

One of Crowley’s eyebrows lifts, skeptical. “Angel.”

“Oh, all right. Well…” He shifts his weight. “I suppose I wanted to cheer you up. After we heard that choir in the church, you looked…”

He trails off. Crowley’s mouth is pressed into a thin line, his eyes hidden by the low light and his sunglasses. Aziraphale wonders what his eyes looked like before he Fell, if they were the blue of oceans and skies, or the green of leaves and moss, or the brown of earth and mountains. Or perhaps some other shade, of galaxies and asteroids, befitting the wonderful passion in Crowley.

He feels sorrow, suddenly, for who Crowley was, for what he lost. But then, as quickly as that feeling arrives, it is replaced by gratitude. Because who Crowley is now, witty and kind and so utterly marvelous, Aziraphale would never trade for anything.

So he meets and holds Crowley’s gaze, stepping close. “I wanted you to share this with me, my dear angel.”

Crowley’s face twists—a combination of anguish and surprise. “But… I’m not an angel.”

Aziraphale lets him tug him nearer, using the lapels of his overcoat. He brushes back Crowley’s hair. “But I know that isn’t what you mean when you call me that, my dearest.”

Crowley’s composure crumbles, and he slumps into Aziraphale, who wraps him up in his arms.

“I don’t deserve you,” Crowley says.

“Don’t be silly,” Aziraphale whispers, and he presses a kiss the side of Crowley’s head. “It isn’t about what you deserve Crowley. I love you, and that’s all there is to it.”

He’s never said it before; he’s never felt that he had to for it to be understood. Now, though, it spills out as easily as if he’s said it a thousand times.

Crowley’s mouth meets the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. “You too, angel.”

They break apart, and Aziraphale is heartened to see Crowley smiling. He kisses him, properly this time, firm yet tender, on the lips. “Home?”

Crowley nods. They link hands again, and walk away from the bandstand through the cheerful wintery park.

And if Crowley is humming the first hymn the choir had performed, Aziraphale doesn’t comment. He only clutches the angel he loves and basks in the harmony.


	9. Wrapping Paper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Human AU. Crowley is a long-suffering employee of Harrods, trapped at the gift wrap station. But at least there's the handsome cashier, Az, to flirt with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So [elizabethelizabeth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethelizabeth), one of the most incredible and wonderful people I know both in this fandom and IRL, wrote a sequel to my Wrapping Paper fic as her Chestnuts fic. Therefore, so both can be read today, I'm posting this today, and I'll post my own Chestnuts prompt on day 13.

Crowley wants to take a nap, but _no_ , instead, he’s at work. This is a rubbish holiday season.

He scoops a pile of ribbon scraps and drops them in the bin underneath the gift wrap station, sighing. That was just a drop in the bucket, compared to the rest of the devastation around his work area. Of course, that’s hardly his fault; it’s these mad holiday shoppers. At least, hiding back here in this corner, he doesn’t have to interact with most of them.

“You’re not too bogged down with work, are you, my dear?” a voice says, and Crowley tries to pretend his heart doesn’t skip a beat at the sound of it.

“Nah,” he says, and turns. “Not at the moment.” Though how that’s happened has to be down to a Christmas miracle. He doesn’t question it, though, because it means he gets to actually talk to his favorite coworker.

Azariah Fell—though he usually introduces himself as “Please, call me Az!”—smiles at him. Somehow, the man always appears pleased to see Crowley, though none of their other coworkers ever feel the same.

“Oh, good,” Az says. “This one’s a bit oddly-shaped. Sorry.” He grimaces in sympathy, which from anyone else Crowley would find patronizing. But from Az, he knows it’s genuine.

Az is holding out a cardboard box, about four feet tall but only a few inches square. Crowley squints at it, then recognizes it. One of those silly play mats for children, this one all interactive or magnetic or something. But Crowley doesn’t care about any detail of it other than the absurd shape.

“They want me to wrap _that_?” he asks.

“Afraid so.” Az’s fingers brush against his when he hands it over, though it’s surely accidental.

“Well, I guess it could be worse—could be round,” he mutters. Az laughs, and Crowley thrills. That’s his favorite part of this ridiculous part time job, making Az smile, making Az laugh.

“It could. Well, good luck.” Az oscillates in front of the wrapping station for a moment before seeming to remember he’s likely needed back at the registers, and walking away. Crowley watches him go, rueful.

 _Come on, Anthony Crowley_ , he chastises. _Work on your conversational skills.You’re never going to keep his interest talking like that, no matter how long you spend plaiting your hair_.

He ends up wrapping the top half of the box first. But before he starts in on the second half, a customer appears from behind a display of toys for that new animated film, the annoying singing princess one. She’s got the look of the typical Harrods customer—and not of the gawking tourist, but of the “I have money; cater to me” variety. Wonderful.

Crowley determines to ignore her, but she approaches his station and he grits his teeth. Do these people really think staring at him will get their items wrapped faster?

“Excuse me,” she says in the middle of his silent rant at the stubborn tape dispenser. “Tony?”

Great, she’s seen his nametag. He’d told the managers Gabriel and Beez in the bloody job interview that he prefers to go by his last name, or at least by Anthony, but no. His nametag is engraved with the insipid nickname _Tony_. Honestly. He gets no respect around here.

“Yes?” he says.

“I was hoping you’d be done.”

“Nearly,” he mutters, and goes back to ignoring her. Better that than snapping at her, like he had at that man last week with the dozen boxes, toys, and trinkets that all needed to be wrapped in various combinations—and the man had had the gall to ask why it was taking so long.

Crowley slaps on a premade bow to the top of the box and brandishes it at her. She looks startled, but walks away, huffing, without comment. Good. At least his withering stare still means _something_.

In the next few minutes, he ducks down so he can’t be seen and manages to sweep away most of the accumulated debris before sitting against the counter and checking his watch. Fifteen minutes left until his break. Okay, he can survive fifteen minutes. But, ugh, how is he going to make it through another two weeks of this? It’s only going to get worse; this is the slowest it’s been since the end of November, and it’s only like this today because it’s a Wednesday morning. Even so, a general murmur of holiday shopping buzzes around him.

“Crowley!” Az’s voice drifts toward him from a few aisles over, cutting through the noise like a bright, chiming note in an orchestra that’s in the midst of warming up. “Are you here, dear?”

Crowley closes his eyes, trying to compose himself. Why does Az have to call him that? Why can’t he just stick with his name? Why add “dear” in that soft tone of his? Why give Crowley hope that his ill-advised attraction might be mutual?

“Hey, Az.” He stands. And no, he doesn’t lean deliberately against the counter in a way that he knows shows off his legs in these trousers. That would be absurd.

Az appears, and Crowley’s stomach drops to the floor.

His jaw must drop as well, because Az starts babbling immediately. “Don’t worry, it’s not as bad as you think! I know it looks like a lot, but really, everything is okay.” He sets down the stack of hardcover children’s books on the wrapping station with a thump. Crowley counts them; twelve? Seriously? Rich people amaze him.

“How is this possibly okay?” he asks, in a strained voice. _Come on, Crowley, be cool. Be collected._

“Well, this kind woman bought her nephew these. She’s heard it’s a popular series, and she knows he likes to read, so…” Az smiles. In spite of himself Crowley softens. Az adores books, a fact which Crowley finds altogether too endearing, considering he hardly reads. “I did convince her that they would look better wrapped in bundles of three. So really, it’s only four gifts you have to wrap, not twelve.”

Crowley exhales in relief, and then, the words slip out of their own accord. “You’re an angel.”

Az’s eyes widen a bit, and a bright blush spread across his face. Crowley thinks he might be in a similar state, but he has to commit now. So he smiles in a way he has noticed makes Az a little flustered—crooked and just a touch sly, but warm.

“I don’t know about that, my dear,” Az says, but he’s smiling.

“I do.” Crowley slides the books closer and picks up the top three. He steps away, tears off a piece of paper from the roll affixed to the wall, and turns back to find Az still there, watching him. His eyes flick back up, and Crowley almost freezes. 

_Was he just… staring at my arse? No, no way. Keep it together, Crowley._

“I was wondering, Crowley…” Az clears his throat, squares his shoulders. Steeling himself? Psyching himself up? For what? “I’m going on break soon, and… well, I was hoping…”

“D’you wanna get a coffee w’me?” Crowley blurts, in one breath, so quickly the question blends until it sounds like a single word. _So much for keeping it together._

Az, however, looks delighted. He beams, even as his blush intensifies. “I’d love to. As long as… well, as long as you understand it’s a date.”

Crowley nods, and that makes him smile, and they stand there, grinning at each other like daft fools, for far longer than is probably appropriate. Finally, Az places his hand atop Crowley’s and squeezes.

“Well, I should let you wrap those. I’ll… I’ll meet you outside in a bit?”

Crowley nods. His cheeks protest how much he’s smiling, but his heart—dancing with abandon inside his ribcage—overrides their objections. “Yeah. See you soon, angel.”

Az gives him one last fond look before pulling himself away. Crowley manages to focus on the books, paper, and tape in front of him, but his mind races ahead. He’s getting coffee, with Az. And it’s a date.

Forget everything he said earlier. This is a glorious holiday season.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please go read the sequel [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21635269/chapters/51847729)!


	10. Gold and Silver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Human AU. Aziraphale is a charity worker, though he starts to wonder if he could be doing more when he meets a homeless man named Anthony.

Ezra shivers, which makes his cheap plastic wings tremble behind them. Honestly, what had corporate been thinking? This is hardly going to attract more donations; if anything, it just makes people laugh at him.

Oh, well. It’s for a good cause.

He continues ringing the bell, watching shopper after shopper pass him by with barely a glance. Well, most of them. About one in ten, he estimates, stop and toss a few coins into his collection bucket. He’s actually done well today—the bucket weighs quite a bit; hopefully Gabriel will be pleased. Not that Gabriel ever really is.

Maybe it’s time to relocate. There’s only so much time one can take standing outside in December in Oxford Circus before one goes mad. So he picks up his bucket and its stand—with the sign advertising their charity, and its ridiculous slogan “miracles are what we do!”—and heads down Regent Street.

Things are quieter this way, but only marginally. There are still shops, and with them, thousands of shoppers. His only consolation is that the traffic isn’t quite so chaotic.

He positions himself between a coffee shop and a restaurant and resumes ringing the bell. His arm has been exhausted every night, and he dreads having to do this for another week and a half until Christmas. Then, he scolds himself. Honestly, he shouldn’t complain about this, not when the people he’s helping raise money for are in far worse situations.

“Oi, could you keep it down?” a voice nearby calls. Ezra ignores it, until the person speaks again. “You with the bell! I’m talking to you!”

Ezra almost drops his bell. “Oh!”

Cautiously, he scans the area, and finds his confronter almost immediately, lounging against the back of the nearby bus stop, in front of the uni cinema.

And good heavens, this one has legs for miles, doesn’t he? He’s stretched across the pavement, legs crossed at the ankles, and if his current location were otherwise, he’d almost be posing.

He’s wearing a drab, threadbare black coat, a gray scarf that has certainly seen better days, and a pair of scratched sunglasses. His black jeans are ripped—and not in a way that’s artfully deliberate—and he has no shoes, only socks.

He would look like many other homeless people, were it not for his striking red hair, which flows down his back. As much as bedraggled, dirty hair can flow, that is. Somehow he doesn’t have too much facial hair, just what looks like a week’s worth of uneven growth, so Ezra wonders if he does sometimes find a place to sleep and clean up.

The man raises an eyebrow at him, and Ezra realizes his bell has fallen silent, held limp at his side. “Bloody hell, thank you, was that so hard? This place is enough of a headache without you adding to the racket.”

“I beg your pardon!” Ezra takes a step back, affronted. “I’m collecting for charity! For... the less fortunate.”

“Having any luck?” the man asks, though his tone reveals his skepticism.

Ezra hesitates. “I am.”

“Riiight,” he says. “Whatever you say, Angel.”

“That’s not my—”

The man rolls his eyes, Ezra thinks, though it’s hard to tell behind the sunglasses. “Well, what else am I gonna call you, wearing those?”

Ezra glances at the wings and sighs. “I’ll have you know, they weren’t my first choice of wardrobe.”

“Clearly. You’re dressed like a pretentious professor, honestly.”

Ezra doesn’t dignify that with a reply; he resumes ringing his bell instead. The man grumbles and crosses his arms but doesn’t say anything.

Neither of them speak, in fact, for the next quarter of an hour. Ezra collects a few more pounds’ worth of coins. However, he cannot help noticing that while he is receiving donations, the actual homeless man sitting only feet away... is not.

Ezra feels a flash of anger. This is supposed to be a season of giving, isn’t that what they say? And yet, even with a person in need right under people’s noses, they do nothing? Or if they do, they give their money to someone else. Charity, perhaps, but not true compassion.

The man is ignoring him. He’s rolled fully onto his side, and his eyes seem to be closed. Ezra observes how terribly thin he is. He’s shivering, which isn’t surprising. And the temperature is only going to drop.

When another few silver and gold coins tumble into Ezra’s bucket, he’s had enough of the hypocrisy, the... the guilt-driven, performative charity.

Goodness. Maybe that professor comment hadn’t been far off.

He snaps the plastic lid back on the bucket, collapses the stand it’s been dangling from, and tugs his absurd wings off. Shoving his bell into the pocket of his coat, he shoulders his equipment and strides away.

He’s back in just under ten minutes, and is relieved to see that the man is still there.

“Excuse me?” Ezra asks.

The man jumps. The movement is nearly imperceptible, but Ezra sees it. And he’s seen such a reaction before, in the shelters he volunteers during those rare hours when Gabriel is not breathing down his neck. He hates what this reaction probably means.

“Sorry,” Ezra says as the man sits up. “I just... thought you might like a drink.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “How forward of you.”

Heat rushes to Ezra’s cheeks. “That is not what I meant,” he mutters. “You looked cold, that’s all.”

“Is that... coffee?”

Aziraphale glances down at the drink carrier in his hand. It had been a job, carrying it along with his other things, but he managed.

“Oh, yes, er... this one is, I think? I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got a black coffee, a green tea, one of those pressed juice affairs, and a hot cocoa.”

The man snorts, as if to say  _ who do you take me for, some kind of pleb? _ and takes the black coffee. He sips it, and practically moans in pleasure. “Oh, caffeine, I have missed you.”

Ezra smiles. The man moves over, and he sits next to him.

“I’m Ezra Fell,” he says.

The man pauses, as if sizing him up. “Anthony,” he says finally.

Ezra shakes the offered hand, though, and takes a sip of the rejected cocoa.

“You didn’t have to do this, you know,” Anthony says after he finishes off the coffee, considers the green tea for a while, then starts in on it too.

“I know, but... I help people. It’s... what I do.”

“My hero,” Anthony says dryly.”

Ezra blushes. “Sorry, I know that probably sounds patronizing...”

“Eh, it’s fine. You’re the first one to talk to me like a person in ages. And it helps that you’re pretty.”

Ezra half-chokes on his cocoa. He coughs, ignoring the weight of Anthony’s gaze on him and stares straight ahead, as if he is simply people-watching and is completely unaffected by what he just heard.

“So you work for a homeless charity that makes you wear wings?” he asks after a pause, in a gentler voice this time.

“It’s my supervisor,” Ezra says with a sigh. “He thought it would help collections during the holidays.”

“Has it?”

“Not in the slightest.”

He snorts. “Didn’t think it would. So, you just... go around, asking for coins? Then what?”

“We have a program to help, you know, get people back on their feet. Job searching, and references to get vocational training, and... things.” Suddenly, the explanation falls flat and inadequate.

“Back on their feet, eh?” Anthony curls both hands around the cup, and Ezra notices with a pang that he has no gloves. “Sounds about right. I’ve had a bit of a fall, you might say.”

Ezra doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he slides the bucket over toward Anthony.

“What’re you doing?”

“I told you, I try to help people.”

Anthony hesitates, then pops the lid off the bucket and reaches in, picking up a few coins and letting them tumble back to join the rest. The sound is rather satisfying, and Anthony seems to agree, for he does it again.

“There’s probably twenty pounds in here,” he says. “And you’re just… giving it to me?”

Ezra shrugs. “Well… yes.”

“You’re not worried I’m gonna go out and buy drugs and booze?”

“That possibility should be no reason not to extend help where it might be needed, you know.”

Anthony’s eyebrows lift, as if he’s impressed. “Well… er… thanks.”

His lips twitch in an almost-smile, and it suddenly occurs to Ezra that this man is quite handsome, underneath the uneven beard and tangled hair. Oh dear, he’s gotten himself into a mess, hasn’t he?

“I’d better be going,” he says and stands.

“Oh,” Anthony says, watching him gather up the stand for the collection bucket and his wings, juggling them with the half-finished cocoa and the unwanted juice.

“I’m sorry if dealing with all those coins is…” He trails off. Inconvenient doesn’t seem like the right word; how is a gift of twenty pounds possibly inconvenient? Goodness, he’s making an utter dolt out of himself, isn’t he?

“Eh,” Anthony waves a hand in dismissal. “I can take this to a Barclay’s to swap ’em for bills. Though I should probably clean up”—he glances down at himself—“otherwise they probably wouldn’t let me in.”

Ezra laughs. “Yes, quite. Well, I… right then.”

He gives Anthony a nod, then starts to walk away, when—

“Wait.”

He spins back around, surprised by how hard his heart is pounding. “Hmm?” He tries to affect a nonchalant attitude.

Anthony has stood, kicking at the ground near the bucket and not looking at Ezra directly. “I, er, was wondering. If you might… know someplace I can sleep tonight?”

His adam’s apple bobs in his throat, but Ezra is glad he’s taken this risk, asking something that must feel so humiliating and vulnerable. “I know just the place,” he says.

— — —

The Garden is Ezra’s favorite shelter he’s ever worked at. It’s tucked away near a small park, a short walk from the Southbank, and goes almost out of its way—even for a shelter—to extend particular help to minors, veterans, and domestic abuse victims. Ezra loves when he can come volunteer here.

He leads Anthony through the doors, and immediately spots Anathema, one of the employees he’s known for years, in her office just down the corridor.

“Mr. Fell!” she cries when she sees him. “I wasn’t expecting you today!” She stands and hurries around the desk to reach him.

He smiles and pecks her cheek, and she grins when he gives her the extra juice from earlier. “I’m not here to volunteer today,” he admits. “I just wanted to see if you had a bed open for my— friend.” He only pauses for half a breath before the last word.

Anathema pushes her glasses up and looks Anthony up and down. “I’ll see what I can do, sir,” she tells him. The way Anthony’s shoulders pull back tells Ezra that he hadn’t been expecting such respect. Yet another reason to admire dear Anathema.

“We do have a bed,” she informs them after consulting her computer.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Ezra sighs, and sees in his periphery Anthony giving him a small smile.

“Hey, Newt?” Anathema says, holding down a button on her desk phone. “Can you come get a new arrival situated?”

A muffled reply in the affirmative comes back, and Anathema rolls her eyes. “He never pushes down the button far enough. I didn’t even know that was possible. Honestly, it’s like he’s allergic to technology or something. Or cursed.”

Anthony chuckles, and the sound of it makes Ezra’s heart leap. Then, a bespectacled young man, around Anathema’s age, appears in the doorway. He looks far less confident than she does, but he shakes Anthony’s hand with no hesitation as they exchange pleasantries.

“Right, well,” Anthony says, turning to Ezra. “Thanks for… all this.”

Ezra nods, swallowing. He’s loath to let Anthony go, for some reason. “You’re welcome.”

“Oh, er…” Anthony seems to remember the coin bucket, which he hefts, staring at with uncertainty.

“Ah, that. Anathema, could you keep this in your office?”

She nods and takes it from Anthony, though her brow furrows. “Isn’t that yours, Mr. Fell?”

“Not anymore,” is all he says, and she shrugs.

“So…” Anthony says, “see you around?”

Ezra smiles and shakes his hand. “You may depend upon it.”

He leaves with Newt, and Ezra feels unfathomably bereft. He faces Anathema, who smiles. “I was hoping to talk to you,” she says. “We’ve still got that director’s position open. I mean, I can do it, but it’s a lot when I also have to do all the—”

“My dear,” he interrupts, “I really don’t know. You know I have—”

“Your other job, yes. But I think this would be a great fit for you. You could do so much good here, Mr. Fell. Even more than you already do.”

Ezra regards her, so earnest and hopeful. And he wants to say yes, he does. But he’s been with the charity for so long, and the thought of talking to Gabriel about this sends dread through him.

“I’ll think about it,” he says to appease her.

— — —

He walks into work the next morning, resolutely not wondering how Anthony fared overnight in the shelter, if he talked to Anathema about his options, or if he made friends, or if he felt safe.

He’s so preoccupied that he almost walks into Gabriel.

His supervisor is wearing his usual gray suit, with the angel wing lapel pin and the scowl that are his trademarks. 

“Ezra, good, you’re here.” He folds his hands in front of himself and holds Ezra’s gaze, even as Ezra wants to shrink and hide in his cubicle. “You didn’t come turn in your collection bucket last night.”

“I know,” Ezra says.

“So? Where is it?”

Ezra stares at him. Honestly, all these years of loyalty and hard work, and Gabriel still doesn’t trust him? He thinks of how he feels whenever he has to have a conversation like this, usually over trivial matters. He thinks of how he’d felt the day before, explaining to Anthony what he does here and how it made him feel so inadequate. He thinks of the sound of Anthony’s laugh, the incredulous gratitude masked behind dark sunglasses.

“I gave it away,” he says.

Gabriel jerks back in surprise. “Excuse me?”

“I said, I gave it away. To someone homeless who needed the money.”

“You’re kidding, right?  _ We _ need the money, Ezra, to help—”

“Well, I  _ was _ helping, yesterday. And if you can’t understand that…” Ezra shakes his head. How has he tolerated this for so long? Resolve fills him, and he lifts his chin. “Well. Never mind. I gave it away, Gabriel, and you just have to accept that.”

“You—”

“And also, I quit.”

Gabriel’s eyes nearly pop out of his head, but Ezra doesn’t stay to see the fallout of what he’s said. He just smiles, an expression that probably verges on cheeky, and leaves the way he came.

— — —

Anathema grins when she sees him walk inside. “Twice in two days! What’s the occasion, Mr. Fell?”

He grins back, feeling lighter than he has in years. “Please, dear, call me Ezra. We’ve known each other for years, and besides, if we’re to work together, we might as well be on a first-name basis.”

She blinks. “Work together? Are you—?”

He holds out a paper, his CV. “I’m applying for the director job.”

She gasps, hand pressing to her face in delight. “That’s wonderful, Ezra. And if I have anything to say about it, you’ll start tomorrow if you can.”

He’s about to reply when a new voice cuts in. “Well, hey, Angel.”

Anthony is leaning against the doorframe, but Ezra almost doesn’t recognize him at first. A single night in the Garden has transformed him. He’s had a shower, and his skin has a much healthier glow than even twelve hours ago. His hair, which he’s pulled over one shoulder, gleams in tempting waves. His clothes are new, too—dark blue jeans and a black T-shirt and hand-me-down but serviceable black sneakers. His sunglasses are the same ones as before, but now they are pushed up onto his forehead, revealing striking brown eyes. Ezra swears in this light they’re almost golden.

He looks… good. No, he looks fantastic.

Ezra realizes he might have gone too long without replying, so he shakes himself and says, “Hello, Anthony. You look better.”

Anthony smirks, an expression Ezra immediately never wants to see off of him. “I do clean up nice, don’t I?”

“Indeed,” Ezra says in a small voice, and Anthony’s smirk shifts to something almost… coy?

Anathema clears her throat. “I’ve got to… well, work stuff, you know. Talk to you later, Ezra.” She pats them both on the shoulders as she bustles off.

Ezra grins; he can’t help it. “How was your night?”

Anthony nods. “Good, yeah. Who knows, I might… stick around, for a bit. But, er, first…” He straightens a bit, perhaps steeling himself. “I wondered if you might like a drink.”

Ezra’s heart clenches in anticipation, in elation. “How forward of you,” he says.

“Nah, not like that,” Anthony says, though his eyes twinkle. “I thought you might be able to, y’know, help me. Since that’s what you do.”

“Help? How so?” Ezra asks. He doesn’t quite know what the rules of this game are, but he’s more than content to play along.

“Oh, dunno, job searching. Recommendations for vocational training. And… things.” His cheeks pinken. “I’m buying, if that influences your decision at all.” He steps into the room and opens up the bucket, which Anathema left by her desk. Anthony flips a coin in the air, its gold and silver flashing in the light. “So. What d’you say, Angel?”

Ezra beams at him. “Sounds like it’s for a good cause.”

He holds the door open for Anthony as they leave, and he swears their fingers brushing is deliberate on both their parts. The thought thrills him.

A good cause indeed.


	11. Pine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has a surprise for Crowley, but Crowley wonders if he will end up losing the angel because of it.

Crowley saunters into the bookshop one day to find Aziraphale packing a bag. He stops short in the doorway.

“What are you up to, Angel?”

Aziraphale looks up. “Oh, Crowley, good. I was about to telephone you. Do come in.”

He does so, suspiciously eyeing the bag Aziraphale is zipping shut. “Okay, I’m in. What’s up?”

Aziraphale turns from the bag to face Crowley, his face alight with enthusiasm. “I was hoping you would want to come on a trip with me. Er, tomorrow. I know that’s short notice, but... well, seeing as neither of us really have jobs anymore, and I can close the shop anytime I like, I thought...”

“Where would we be going?” Crowley asks, and without meaning to, he’s suddenly thinking of places like Scotland, or Australia, or Japan, and what it would be like to explore those places with Aziraphale. In fact, he thinks he would go anywhere, absolutely anywhere, with Aziraphale.

“The South Downs,” Aziraphale replies.

“Oh.” Not what Crowley had been expecting, but all right, then. “Why there, particularly?”

At that, Aziraphale blushes. “I... have a bit of a surprise for you.”

“A what?” he asks in alarm.

“It’s nothing bad, I assure you,” Aziraphale rushes to say. “So, will you come?”

Crowley hesitates, but it’s a token gesture; they both know his answer already. His devotion has long since been sealed, and most recently renewed by the burns on his feet, sustained when he strode straight into Heaven to face a trial with a verdict that had already been decided.

“Yeah, sure, why not?”

Aziraphale beams at him.

— — — 

Crowley clenches the steering wheel. “Is your mysterious surprise much farther away?”

Aziraphale scoffs. “No need to be so impatient. We’re almost there.”

“I don’t like waiting.”

“Really? You could have fooled me, my dear,” Aziraphale says with a teasing smile.

“Don’t joke, Angel, it’s weird.”

Aziraphale chuckles but falls silent. He settles farther back in his seat and gazes across the rolling hills with an inordinately pleased expression. Crowley tries and fails not to find it charming. It isn’t bad out here, which is not the reaction Crowley anticipated having. But something about the sea air and brisk breeze makes it rather pleasant after the thicker, more-noisome air of London.

“Ah, turn here.”

“What, left?”

“Yes, left.” Aziraphale sounds fondly exasperated. “Do you see another way to turn?”

“I could drive through that hedge to the right.”

“You’ll do no such thing!”

Crowley chuckles. “Relax,” he says, and turns left.

They find themselves on a narrow, curving pebble road, lined with pine trees. Crowley guides the Bentley around the bends for a minute, until the road spills into a clearing.

Before them sits a small, old-fashioned cottage, built of light-colored stone and covered with ivy. It leans just slightly, as if it’s regarding them quizzically. Aziraphale lets out a gasp of delight when he sees it. “Oh, it’s even better than the pictures,” he exclaims.

“What pictures?” Crowley asks as he turns off the Bentley. But Aziraphale ignores him in favor of climbing out of the car and hurrying toward the cottage.

“Okay, then,” Crowley says, and follows.

Somehow, Aziraphale has a key. He unlocks the front door and steps inside as if he owns the place. Fleetingly, Crowley wonders if he does, but then, surely he would have mentioned something?

“Isn’t it lovely?” Aziraphale says. “Come on, let’s have a look around.”

Crowley is so baffled by this odd turn of events that he nods, mute, and trails after Aziraphale as he goes from room to room, pointing out everything. And with each room, Crowley feels sicker, though he isn’t sure why.

There’s a cozy study that overlooks the back garden, with bookshelves that line the walls. Crowley can instantly imagine Aziraphale whiling away the days here, reading novel after novel.

There’s a kitchen at the front of the house, with updated appliances but a traditional feel nonetheless. Crowley thinks of tea and scones and soup, of Aziraphale’s hands dusted with flour or stained with tomato juice.

There’s a large hearth in the sitting room, and a small pile of logs next to it. Crowley thinks of snowy days and tea and Aziraphale curled up under a blanket, his head in Crowley’s lap.

There’s a pair of small bedrooms on the southern side of the cottage, mirrors of each other and, to his surprise, both large enough to fit a bed big enough for two. He thinks of his own bed in this space, his own things, and Aziraphale never using the second bedroom, instead curling up beside Crowley every night.

 _Oh, heavens,_ he thinks fiercely, _stop it already!_

“I think I’ll put the gramophone on the corner here,” Aziraphale muses, standing contemplatively by the window of the second bedroom. “Or perhaps in the sitting room.”

“People call it a record player these days, you know,” Crowley corrects automatically, before the implications of Aziraphale’s words sink in. Why would Aziraphale bring the gramophone here, away from the bookshop? “Wait, say that again?”

Aziraphale looks perplexed. “Well, I’m certainly not going to leave my belongings in London? There’s enough storage here, as you saw, and without doubt enough bookshelves. It’ll be fine.”

 _Fine_ is possibly the farthest thing from what Crowley feels about all this. Rather, his stomach has dropped to the floor, his chest clenching itself into knots.

His instinctive fears are confirmed—Aziraphale truly is leaving London.

Historically, Aziraphale has not always lived in London, of course. Neither of them have. But for the past century, it’s been their home. And in spite of everything, Crowley’s become rather fond of it, even if the last eleven years have been, well, a bit stressful. He and Aziraphale have become a more tightly-knit team—out of necessity, yes, but Crowley likes to think some of their bond has been formed through mutual liking.

He knows his own feelings have.

And yet… Aziraphale is moving away, and the knowledge makes something deep within Crowley _burn_.

He should have known this was coming. They’re hereditary enemies, after all; an angel only has so much use for a demon when Armageddon is no longer impending. He has always known that Aziraphale would grow tired of him; he simply didn’t believe it would happen so soon.

But look how excited Aziraphale is about this. How can Crowley begrudge him this?

And so he summons up all his reserves of strength and courage, and nods. “Yeah, it’ll be fine.”

Aziraphale smiles at him, and they continue on, this time outside. Crowley doesn’t let himself imagine anything, can’t bear to contemplate that Aziraphale really will be here soon, in this place without Crowley.

There’s a porch at the back of the house, from which they can glimpse the sea in the distance. And across the grass, just before the trees begin, stands a small building with glass walls and a glass roof—a greenhouse, filled with empty pots that beg to be filled with green, growing things.

Aziraphale walks around the structure, fretting about the poor state it’s been left in. Crowley leans against the nearest tree, a pine, and watches. He doesn’t quite understand what evergreen fetish the landscaper had, but he finds he irrationally resents the trees. They’re taking Aziraphale away, after all.

There’s a bench between two of the trees nearby, so Crowley sits. Beyond the grove, he can see across rolling fields toward the gray-blue sea again. Seagulls shriek above them, and he can hear the distant sound of waves crashing upon the cliffs.

It’s absurdly picturesque and forlorn and beautiful and relaxing, and Crowley loathes it.

“So, Angel,” he says when Aziraphale sits down next to him on the bench. He tries for a casual tone that masks the distress that seems to be choking his very soul. _Come on, Crowley, you can do this_. “When are you moving?”

Aziraphale’s head tilts, and his mouth opens and closes a few times before he speaks. “I… haven’t quite set a date yet. There’s still things to be done with the realtor, you know. It’s been a while since I purchased property, and things have certainly changed. Anyway, you’ll be the first to know, of course. After all, we’ve got to figure out how to fit everything into the Bentley. I suspect multiple trips will be needed for the books.” He smiles, all sheepish and self-deprecating in a charming way, as if knowing how absurd the size of his book collection is.

But Crowley can’t think about that right now; he’s stuck on that bit about the Bentley. He tries to speak, ends up only making a strange sound, and has to clear his throat before he tries again. “Wait. What?”

Aziraphale frowns. “ _What_ what?”

“We? I… I mean… the Bentley?”

Understanding dawns on Aziraphale’s face, and he leans backward. “Crowley, did… did you honestly think that I would move without you?” Hurt flashes across his eyes. “I thought you said we’re on our own side now, after all.”

Crowley almost flinches when the guilt hits him. “I did say that, and I meant it,” he hurries to explain, even as his throat closes up. “I only—”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupts. His eyes are wide. “Do you not like the cottage? Because… well, we can change it. Or look for somewhere else, I don’t know, more interesting? I know I didn’t consult you on any of it, but… well, the greenhouse, and all the trees… I thought you’d like them.” His eyes are shining, and Crowley hates that he looks like that because of him. “Or… do you not want to move with me? I’d understand. I shouldn’t have gone about this in this way, I’m so sorry—”

“Angel,” Crowley cuts off in a tight voice, “Angel, slow down.” He gives in, shifts forward, and puts his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders. “I do want to move in with you, here. I…” He ducks his head. “I just didn’t think you _meant_ both of us.”

Aziraphale’s relief is like a sunbeam. “Oh, thank goodness,” he breathes. “You foolish, ridiculous thing, of course I meant us both. I don’t want to be without you anymore, my dearest.”

The endearment, somehow so different than the usual “my dear” even though it’s a matter of a mere three letters, sends warmth rushing through Crowley.

He leans forward, and their noses bump. “Say that again.” The words escape his mouth without his bidding, but his very being feels as if it is glowing with the joy of what Aziraphale is said, what Aziraphale is offering.

“What—you foolish, ridiculous thing?” Aziraphale grins. Cheeky git.

“No,” Crowley says, and the words brush against Aziraphale’s lips. “Call me dearest again.”

“I can better that, actually,” Aziraphale says. “Kiss me, dearest.”

And Crowley does.


	12. Caroling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a cold winter night, the angel Aziraphale flies over Europe. He sees the scars upon the land, and feels the ache in the hearts of the humans. Buildings are in ruins, towns are flattened, and people are wounded, perhaps irreparably. Aziraphale can feel their fear and despair and anger. The aching urge to stop and go down among them and help is so intense that he nearly disobeys his orders. But he knows if he stops now, he will never get going again; there are so many people in need.
> 
> But then, when the chalky cliffs of England come into view, something pulls at his consciousness. He halts, gazing down on a small town, the windows darkened but the lives within the homes burning with hopes and fears and longing for safety. Prayers signing to him like Christmas carols.
> 
> A Second World War story, set a few months after the church scene from Episode 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This only distantly has anything to do with the prompt, but I had this idea (inspired a bit by Trans-Siberian Orchestra's album "Christmas Eve and Other Stories," oddly enough) and couldn't let it go.

On a cold winter night, the angel Aziraphale flies over Europe. He has been sent with a particular purpose, to a particular place, but he personally has no particular desire to be here.

He sees the scars upon the land, and feels the ache in the hearts of the humans. Buildings are in ruins, towns are flattened, and people are wounded, perhaps irreparably. Aziraphale can feel their fear and despair and anger. The aching urge to stop and go down among them and help is so intense that he nearly disobeys his orders. But he knows if he stops now, he will never get going again; there are so many people in need.

So he continues on, over the rest of France and to the English Channel. Even here, on the ships in the water far below, he feels the pain, and has to press a hand to his chest and  _ force _ himself to go on.

But then, when the chalky cliffs of England come into view, something pulls at his consciousness. He halts, gazing down on a small town, the windows darkened but the lives within the homes burning with hopes and fears and longing for safety. Prayers signing to him like Christmas carols.

One whispering melody lifts above the others, and Aziraphale cradles it close.

The voice begs for help from the Almighty in a tone of poorly suppressed desperation. The man praying speaks of his regret for words said in anger, and how those words sent a rift through his family as deep as the gashes in the ground of France. He pleads for his daughter, gone from home for too long now, to come home—or at least, to be safe wherever she is. But most of all, he wants her home for Christmas, which feels empty without her.

Aziraphale holds the prayer gently, listens to its song again, and then releases it back into the sky to continue on its journey. He watches it go, wondering if an angel can feel heartache, then hovers there, considering. He’s been sent for a reason, but this… this is important, too. Besides, he is a soldier, technically, and a healer—time for triage.

The girl isn’t hard to find; details and memories of her reside in the man’s prayer, and Aziraphale locates her in an instant.

It’s snowing where she stands on a street corner, outside a pay phone that is clearly broken, a casualty of the bombings of the spring and never repaired. Her coat is warm but worn, and Aziraphale can sense her hunger, fatigue, and regret. He reads her history in a moment—fleeing to London after the fight, finding a job, the Blitz sending even that small stability into chaos and uncertainty.

Most of all, he feels her longing for safety, for home, and for her father’s love most of all.

Aziraphale is about to move forward, to bless her with all that and more, when she steps away from the pay phone, her eyes landing on something on the other side of the street: a pub, the lantern above it glowing brightly across the snow. She moves toward it, hesitance in her motions, but desire too. Aziraphale watches her check her pockets, in which she carries a few coins, then take a steadying breath and head inside.

Once she is inside, Aziraphale makes to follow—but then stops. He recognizes a familiar presence, a demonic but welcome presence. If he had a heart like humans did, it would have started pounding harder.

Crowley, handsome but ridiculous, rushing to save Aziraphale from his own folly—yes, and a bomb. Crowley, kind beyond all expectations, sparing the books from the flames. Crowley, beautiful and complicated and astounding, driving Aziraphale home with a smile.

Aziraphale had wanted him then; he wants him now. Thousands of years of friendship have done nothing to lessen his feelings. If anything, he is verging on desperate now. He craves Crowley in the way a dormant tree craves spring, craves the chance to let something bloom.

Yet at the same time, dare he risk it? He doesn’t worry about hiding it from his head office—if they haven’t noticed how close he and Crowley are by now, they surely won’t notice if they become even closer. But does Crowley want that?

Afraid to find out the answer is no, Aziraphale only adjusts where he hovers so he can watch the proceedings from a distance. As an angel, he doesn’t need a direct line of sight, necessarily. So from above the pub, he can witness everything within and be safe from rejection.

The girl, reticent and unsure, takes a seat at the bar, shoulders hunched.

“Can I get you something?” the bartender asks, and the girl looks up with a flash of fear in her eyes.

“Erm…” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out the meager handful of coins. “Is… is there a way I can…”

The bartender’s lips are pursed, and she trails off. “Wish I could help you,” he says, “but my family’s got to eat too, you know—”

“Aw, come on, mate.” Crowley speaks then, crossing his arms and leaning against the bar so he can scowl down it toward the man. “Get her some tea and something to eat.” Then, when the bartender opens his mouth as if to protest, Crowley adds, “You can put it on my tab.”

There’s a pause, as all three of them consider each other. Then, the bartender shrugs and heads back toward the kitchen. The girl glances toward Crowley, then away just as quickly. He, on the other hand, watches her with curiosity.

“You all right, kid?” he asks.

She traces a scrape in the wood of the bar. “Fine.”

“Yeah? Alone on Christmas? Assuming you celebrate it, sorry to assume.”

“Of course I do, only…” She shrugs. “I might not this year. Not really a time for celebrating, is it?”

Crowley grimaces and nods. “Yeah, maybe not.”

They fall silent. Crowley turns back to his pint, and the girl to tracing the wood grains. The bartender brings her broth and a bit of bread and tea, and she eats as if she hasn’t had more than scraps in days—and perhaps she hasn’t, Aziraphale thinks with dread.

“Slow down,” Crowley tells her, watching her tear off a large piece of bread with her teeth. “It’s not going anywhere.”

She ignores him, and he shrugs. He isn’t wearing a hat at the moment, and Aziraphale regards him, noting how short his hair is. He misses the long hair, though he finds Crowley lovely no matter how his hair is styled.

The girl finishes her broth and bread, but lingers over her tea, breathing in the steam and taking tiny sips, as if to draw out the luxury. Crowley glances at her and chuckles, but it’s not a malicious sound. She hears it and turns to him.

“Thank you,” she says. “This was too generous.”

He lifts his pint. “No trouble.”

She gives him a shy smile then, but Aziraphale feels the stress emanating from her—she’s growing more and more anxious, the closer she gets to finishing her tea. What will she do when she leaves here? Where will she sleep? What will she do tomorrow?

“Hey, kid,” Crowley says. He’s using that tone Aziraphale has heard before, when he’s trying to be nonchalant but actually cares quite a lot about something. “You sure you’re all right?”

She nods, but it’s more of a jerk of the head and not at all convincing. Aziraphale wonders, in these years of war and destruction and death and agony, if anyone is truly all right. Crowley tilts his head, that blend of thoughtful and scheming Aziraphale has seen a hundred times.

When the girl finishes her tea and leaves, Crowley follows. Aziraphale shifts out of sight, but remains within earshot as they emerge in the street, where the snow is still falling in earnest.

“Kid, seriously…”

She whirls, a hint of fear in her wide eyes. “What do you want?”

Crowley stays in the light of the pub’s windows, several paces away from her, hands at his sides. “Nothing. But do  _ you _ want help? You seem like you…” he trails off and shrugs.

Something about his demeanor seems to put her more at ease. She blinks rapidly, and Aziraphale senses her desperation for kindness. “I want to go home,” she whispers. “But I can’t. I don’t have the means… and my father, I don’t even know if he’ll want me back…”

“But it’s Christmas, of course he will.” Crowley sounds almost affronted at the idea that it could be otherwise.

“He doesn’t even know where I am,” she says. “He might not even know I’m alive. I came here just before the bombing started.”

“Then, don’t you want him to know that you’re all right?” Crowley asks.

She nods, miserable. Crowley gazes at her, then sighs. He rummages in his pockets and withdraws a wallet, from which he removes several bills. Nearly a hundred pounds, Aziraphale counts, with a growing sense of wonder.

Crowley steps to the edge of the street and surreptitiously snaps his fingers, keeping his hand hidden in the folds of his coat. A cab appears from around the corner. It stops before him, and he opens the door and beckons the girl inside.

She hesitates, staring at him in shock. “Why are you helping me?”

“It’s Christmas,” he says with an air of feigned dismissal. “Just…. Don’t tell anyone, yeah? I have a reputation.”

Her mouth twitches, and she climbs into the cab. Through the still-open door, Crowley hands her the money and tells the driver to take her to Paddington Station.

Before she closes the door, she reaches out and touches the back of his hand where it rests on the doorframe. “You must… You must be a guardian angel,” she breathes. “Thank you.”

She closes the door, and the cab pulls away. Crowley stands on the sidewalk, watching its departure with clear astonishment.

Aziraphale can no longer resist; never mind his initial panic upon seeing him. How can his feelings be a problem, when Crowley, despite the role he’s been forced to inhabit, is so willing to be kind? So Aziraphale steps out from his hiding place and approaches Crowley through the snow, leaving no footprints.

Crowley turns his head and does a double take. “Aziraphale! What are you doing here?” he asks, though his tone isn’t irritated, merely surprised. A smile grows on his lips.

“I’m needed everywhere at the moment,” Aziraphale says, still trying to ignore the weight of all the sorrow in this city, which has returned to rest upon him now that the distraction of the girl has gone. “But I could ask you the same question.”

Crowley shrugs, smile vanishing. “Needed a drink.” He removes his sunglasses, brushing the snowflakes off on his coat.

Aziraphale eyes him. His shoulders seem more sloped than usual, and he doesn’t meet Aziraphale’s gaze now. In that moment, standing in front of the still-ruined stone wall that used to be part of a home, Aziraphale realizes he isn’t the only celestial being suffering, trying to fight a battle against violence that seems unwinnable. Crowley’s struggling too, giving money and a friendly ear, and perhaps even protecting people as he protected Aziraphale in that church.

So Aziraphale nods and steps forward so he’s in front of Crowley. “What you did just now… That was very kind of you.”

“Shut up,” Crowley says, but his voice is soft, and so tired. The sound of it twists something inside Aziraphale. “It was nothing.”

There are snowflakes in Crowley’s hair, and Aziraphale wants to brush them away. Instead, he says, “Not to that girl. You saw she needed help, and you gave it to her. She can go home now.”

Crowley nods. “I hope she gets there,” he admits in a whisper.

And it’s that, and the way Crowley’s eyes glow in the light from above the pub, that propels Aziraphale forward. In the safety of this night, it’s effortless to let their lips meet in a gentle kiss. It’s a kiss that Crowley gasps into, leans into, sinks into with all the desperation of one who has longed for this for centuries—and, likely, he has, just as Aziraphale has.

When they break apart, Crowley nuzzles into his neck. Aziraphale holds him, sighing.

“Are we going to get through this, Angel?” Crowley asks.

And Aziraphale tightens his grip. “Yes,” he breathes. “We are.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Well… because I am,” he says. “As certain as I am that you did the right thing, helping that girl. Because this isn’t Armageddon. And you aren’t alone. None of us are.”

Crowley lifts his head, and he smiles. “Yeah,” is all he says.

Their next kiss, in the light of the pub’s sign, feels like coming home.


	13. Chestnuts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this story, you can easily get to the bookshop in Soho from Tower Bridge, which in reality… no. But hey, it’s an AU. Fight me.

Bloody Christmas crowds.

Why are there always so many more people in London in December? Where do they come from? Can’t they stay home, and let Crowley get to work in peace?

He dodges around a group of selfie stick–toting tourists, grumbling about whoever invented such a thing. He really should change his route getting to work, but then again, all these people are inconveniencing him; he should not have to accommodate them. Besides, the next nearest Tube station would require changing lines, which is always a pain during peak hours. It’s technically still easier to face the gauntlet that is Tower Bridge. 

So. Selfie stick people it is. He supposes he can tolerate them, if he must.

Ahead of the pack of tourists, halfway across the bridge, he spots a street vendor and pauses. The smell of cinnamon and nuts washes over him.

Oh, why not? He’s going to be late for work anyway.

There’s a short queue, but it moves quickly, and Crowley reaches the front in only a minute and orders cinnamon-roasted chestnuts. Ugh, he’s becoming rather pathetic in his middle age, susceptible to wanting _holiday treats_.

He pays the vendor and takes the paper cone of nuts, then turns to continue on his way—

And collides with the person directly behind him.

“Oh!” the other person exclaims, reaching out to steady Crowley. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Crowley grumbles. “’Scuse me, my... bad.” He half-chokes on the last word, as his eyes land on the person in front of him.

Well, shit.

Those eyes have to be the largest, softest, most overwhelmingly blue eyes Crowley has ever seen.

He glances over the man—light-colored suit, a vest that makes him look like a Victorian-era literature professor, a pale blue shirt that only serves to make his eyes even brighter, even bluer.

Those eyes should be illegal.

And overall, his look shouldn’t do it for Crowley.

(It does.)

He isn’t even Crowley’s usual type.

(It doesn’t matter.)

“It’s quite all right,” the man says. He brushes off Crowley’s jacket, and Crowley’s mind almost short-circuits. Again.

“Right, then,” he manages to say. He nods, swallows, and walks away like the coward he is.

— — —

The next day, even while bundled against the frigid wind, he sees the man again. He’s wearing a cozy-looking camel-colored overcoat and a cream-and-navy scarf. 

Crowley wonders what the fabric feels like.

He doesn’t stop at the street vendor that day, though he glances over his shoulder a few times, wondering where the man’s destination is.

Then, he wonders why it matters to him.

— — —

The third day, he caves and buys more chestnuts. They’re good, he tells himself, and that’s the only reason he’s stopping here. He doesn’t have time to be infatuated with a random stranger he has seen twice on his commute, after all. It’s the holidays; he has hundreds of poinsettias to deal with at work.

As he reaches the end of the bridge, however, he spots the man. He’s giving instructions to a pair of tourists, because of course he is. He just seems like that sort, doesn’t he? Anyone who manages to look adorable in a tartan collar has to be a specific sort of person.

Of course, Crowley reflects with no small amount of bitterness, such a person would hardly be interested in him.

— — —

The fourth day, the man is in the queue at the street vendor’s stand by the time Crowley arrives on the bridge. He lurks in the back, a few people behind the man, and tries not to watch him making small talk with the vendor. Tries not to notice the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. Tries not to notice how he cradles the cone of roasted nuts as if they’re to be treasured.

(Crowley rather hates himself for thinking that he wants to be that cone of roasted nuts.)

Once the man leaves—heading in the opposite direction Crowley needs to go—Crowley ducks out of the queue and storms off, horrified by himself.

He needs to go yell at some poinsettias.

— — —

By the fifth day, Crowley is determined. He is not going to look for the man, and he is not going to care.

As luck would have it, it’s pouring on his way to work. On one hand, that’s good for the nursery; they use reclaimed water to water the plants whenever they can. On the other hand, he has to face the deluge.

No, no, this is good. This way, he can try out that alternate route to work, even though it involves line changes. And there will be no temptation, no need to even be on the bridge.

The Tube is, of course, miserable. Crowded and humid, everyone dripping water everywhere. Crowley forces his way through the masses of people, grumbling and glancing at the time on his phone. At this rate, even though his final Tube stop is nearer work, he’ll be late.

He steps onto the platform, intending to head straight for the stairs, but instead he stops. At the front of the train, the man is disembarking. And dammit, even damp from the rain he looks… good.

Crowley dives into the tunnel dividing this platform from the westbound train, chest heaving and heart pounding. 

What is he doing here? Can’t he leave Crowley in peace to wrestle his stupid infatuation into submission?

Crowley counts to thirty, then ducks back into the passage. Surely the man will be gone by now.

He isn’t. He’s stopped to listen to a musician, strumming a Christmas song on guitar. Of course he is. Crowley hates that he finds that charming. Honestly, he doesn’t know anything about this man. He could be a madman of some kind. He could be incredibly unkind or… well, any number of things really. Crowley really needs to let this go.

He squares his shoulders and walks past the man—who sees him. Recognition sparks in his eyes, those soft eyes Crowley thinks he could get lost in if he’s not careful. And Crowley, who fancies himself to be a decent judge of character, sees nothing but kindness there.

Shit.

“Hello,” the man says.

“Hi,” Crowley chokes. Holy shit, are they talking? Why? What is he supposed to do about this?

“Do you… remember me?” The man looks a bit awkward, as if realizing how many rules of British social decorum he’s breaking right now.

Crowley swallows back a half-panicked laugh. Does he remember? As if he hasn’t been daydreaming about talking to this man ever since he almost knocked him over.

(Of course, he was a lot more suave in his daydreams.)

“Y—yeah,” he says. Say something else, Crowley, come up with something to say. “Rubbish weather, yeah?”

Riveting. He’ll adore you now.

The man nods, and glances sidelong at Crowley, whose mind immediately races ahead—does his hair look okay? Oh, did he even comb his hair this morning? No, yes? He tied it back in a loose bun, but that’s all. And oh God, is his outfit okay?

But the man, he realizes, is… blushing?

“Well, that’s London.”

Crowley smiles, and the man smiles back, and Crowley wants to clutch his chest in response. They walk to the escalators together, and the crowds cause their arms to bump more than once. Crowley holds his breath practically the whole time.

Neither of them talk again, but when they reach street level, they both pause on the sidewalk.

“So,” Crowley says. “I, er… need to go to work.”

“Right, of course,” he nods.

Crowley nods too, hesitates, then steps away. “See you around, then,” he says lamely.

“Azra.”

Crowley blinks. “What?”

“My name’s Azra Fell.”

“Oh.” Crowley tries to ignore how his heart has leaped. “Anthony Crowley.”

They shake hands, and Azra smiles. It’s the best expression Crowley has ever seen, on anyone, ever.

“Well,” Azra says. “See you around.”

Crowley doesn’t want to go, but he drops Azra’s hand. “See ya.”

He turns to go, his step light. Azra. Azra. His name is Azra, and he remembered Crowley.

Azra.

— — —

Crowley doesn’t work during the weekend, which he’s a strange combination of grateful and annoyed about. He’s glad to have a break from frantic holiday shoppers who are convinced that the perfect floral centerpiece will magically heal family strife, but he also wants to see Azra again.

By the time Monday arrives, he’s several times over completed the cycle of anxiety, to excitement, to doubt, to confidence, and back. When he leaves his flat, he’s in the “excitement” stage, which manages to sustain itself all the way to the bridge.

His enthusiasm deflates, however, when he spots the street vendor, but no Azra. He slows, looking around. Maybe he’s running late, or Crowley is. The Tube is notoriously unreliable when it’s most inconvenient, so perhaps he’s been delayed. Or he’s sick; it’s that time of year…

Trying to suppress his disappointment, he gets in the queue and inhales the scent of cinnamon and chestnuts. At least this morning won’t be a total loss.

He reaches the front of the queue, opens his mouth to order—

“One for me please, and one for my friend here.”

Crowley jumps. Azra is standing next to him, smiling shyly as he hands over the money.

“Hello,” he says.

“Hi,” Crowley chokes out. He watches, dumbstruck, as Azra takes the two paper cones and hands one to Crowley.

“Come on, dear,” he says, putting a hand on Crowley’s shoulder and guiding him out of the queue. Crowley follows.

He’s touching me, he thinks wildly. What.

They’ve nearly reached the end of the bridge when Crowley regains the ability to speak. “Thanks.”

“Well,” Azra shrugs, beaming at him, “it’s the holidays, after all. If you can’t buy a treat for a handsome stranger in December, when can you?”

Crowley’s walk falters, and he knows he’s blushing. “Oh,” is all he says.

Azra’s eyes widen. “Sorry, if… if this is unwelcome…” He swallows and starts to move away, but Crowley leaps forward, clutching at his arm, then stopping himself at the last minute—he doesn’t want to invade Azra’s space.

(Well, he does, but not without, you know, enthusiastic consent.)

“No!” he squawks. “Not at all, I… I’m surprised.”

Azra looks relieved. “Why on earth would you be surprised? Anthony… I’m afraid I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.” He frowns. “That wasn’t meant to sound so… well, menacing?”

Crowley laughs. “No, no, it… I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

That makes Azra grin, his cheeks turning pink. It’s a gorgeous look on him; Crowley wants to see it on him always, every day, forever.

“I know you’re probably on your way to work,” Azra says, “but I was hoping you might be free for dinner later?”

Crowley makes an involuntary noise in his throat.

“Or lunch,” Azra rushes on, “or a drink, or…” He trails off, biting his lower lip.

(Crowley wants to be that lower lip.)

“Yes,” Crowley says, starting to grin. “Yes, any of it. All of it.”

“Oh,” Azra murmurs. “Good.”

“Here, you got a phone?” Crowley asks. Still grinning, he inputs his number into Azra’s mobile. “Text me, okay?”

Azra nods. “I will.” He glances down—God, is that a pocket watch? Why is that adorable?—and sighs. “Oh, I must be going.”

He looks up, meets Crowley’s gaze. “I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah.” Crowley nods. His face hurts. “Later. Thanks for the chestnuts, by the way.”

“Of course, dear.” And damn, Azra’s blue eyes really shouldn’t be allowed.

— — —

Two years later, Crowley can hardly believe how things have changed. Yes, he still works at the nursery, still comes home with dirt on his hands, still scolds the ferns when they’re misbehaving. However, now, he sneaks smaller blooms out of the shop, he tries to keep his hands clean so he can hold Azra’s hand, he listens to compliments given to the ferns at home in secret.

The previous year, in December, he’d only just begun to grow accustomed to all this, though their first date was a year ago. He remembers now the excitement they’d both felt the first day they saw the street vendor had brought out the chestnuts. They’d taken it in turns buying them, giggling as they fed each other before separating to go to their workplaces with cinnamon-flavored kisses.

This year, Crowley feels more at ease with himself, more used to this life. That is not to say, of course, that it doesn’t thrill him every time Azra comes home, or kisses him, or reaches for him at night in bed. He’ll never get used to that; he doesn’t want to.

“Oh, darling,” Azra says this particular morning, “look!”

Halfway down the bridge, the street vendor is back. He isn’t always there, but is present more often in the summer and Christmas. And now—the delightful scent of cinnamon and chestnuts.

Crowley glances at Azra, who’s beaming. “I’m buying,” he says.

“But—”

“No arguments,” Crowley cuts him off. “That’s the deal, remember. We take turns.”

“But last week, you bought me that first edition of—”

“I said no arguments.”

Azra huffs in exasperation, but smiles. They join the queue, and once they reach the front, greet the street vendor, who grins in recognition.

“No charge today,” he says.

“What?” Crowley asks, pound coins held out before him, unacknowledged. “Why?”

“You two are some of my best customers,” he says with a shrug.

“Why, thank you,” Azra says. He takes the paper cones and ushers Crowley out of the way, but then pauses by the railing of the bridge and faces him.

“You okay, Az?” Crowley asks. Something in his face seems nervous, for some reason.

Azra nods and hands him his cone. “Of course. I only wanted to enjoy this. You know, first chestnuts of the season.”

Crowley lifts an eyebrow, but pops a chestnut in his mouth. It is a nice moment, he thinks. Sure there are annoying selfie stick–carrying tourists and loud lorries and all, but the sky is clear and the wind not too cold. It reminds him of the day he first saw Azra. Then, he almost rolls his eyes—so sentimental, honestly.

He reaches in to the cone, glancing down to select a chestnut, and freezes.

Inside the cone is an extra bit of paper, and inside the paper is a ring.

Crowley whips his head up to find Azra’s stunning eyes, filled with tears, fixed upon him.

“Anthony Crowley,” he says, voice shaking slightly.

“What are you doing?” Crowley breathes.

Azra smiles. “Well, it’s the holidays,” he says, a little steadier this time, “and if that’s not the time to ask the handsome man you love to marry you, when is?”

Crowley’s breath catches, and all over again, he can’t quite believe this is happening, can’t believe someone like Azra truly wants _him_. He can’t move, can’t speak.

He must take too long to reply, though, because Azra’s hopeful expression falls slightly. “We don’t have to, you know. But I do want to spend forever with you, regardless. Whether I call you my boyfriend, or partner, or husband—”

“Yes,” Crowley blurts. “Any of those. But especially the last one. Yes.”

Azra blinks. “Yes?”

“Yes, Az,” Crowley says, and he feels tears starting in his eyes. “I’ll marry you.”

Azra smiles, even as a tear escapes from his frustratingly gorgeous eyes. Crowley wipes it away, still clutching the chestnuts, and the ring, to his chest.

The next few minutes are a blur—giggling and holding each other, then digging the ring from the cone and slipping it on Crowley’s finger, then giggling some more.

When Crowley manages to stop smiling and kiss him, Azra’s lips taste of cinnamon and chestnuts.


	14. Eggnog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few days before their first Christmas as a couple, Aziraphale comes home to find Crowley drunk.

Aziraphale unlocks the door to the closed bookshop, locks it again behind him, and makes his way into the flat, shrugging off his coat.

“Crowley?” he calls.

“In here, Angelllll,” Crowley drawls, his voice emanating from the back of the bookshop.

Aziraphale makes his way toward Crowley. He can hear a fire crackling in the hearth, and smiles in anticipation of curling up next to Crowley in front of it.

He turns the corner, and pauses in surprise.

Crowley has draped himself upon the couch in an almost obscene way. He’s... sprawled. His sunglasses are perched precariously on his head, his hair ruffled as if he’s tried to make it look effortlessly tousled.

“Oh, good Lord,” Aziraphale says, but doesn’t look away. It’s not as if he isn’t allowed to look now, what with how often he and Crowley have been... well.

“Hallo there, darling,” Crowley says, a wide grin on his face.

“Crowley, what are you—?” But then Aziraphale spots the rose petals, red and white and pale pink, scattered all over the floor. They’re on the couch too, and on Crowley, though Aziraphale supposes he can be forgiven for not noticing them first; Crowley is rather distracting.

There are also two bottles, a cutting board with a scattering of cheeses and fruits on it, and a single red candle on the table.

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow, deciding he doesn’t need to finish his question.

“Aziraphaaaale,” Crowley says, drawing out his name to unnecessary lengths, “babe, you were gone soooo long.”

It’s lucky Aziraphale was already halfway to sitting next to Crowley, for the unexpected endearment would have sent him crashing to the floor otherwise. As it is, he sits heavily, and turns to stare at Crowley. He’s so surprised, he doesn’t even bother to point out that he was, in fact, only gone for an hour.

“What did you just call...?”

“ ‘Babe...’ ” Crowley repeats, now sounding uncertain and more than a little disappointed. “Do you... not like it?”

“I didn’t say that,” Aziraphale rushes to say, though he’s a bit horrified that he’s telling the truth. “I suppose I’m just confused as to why you’re...”

His gaze lands on the bottles, which he now sees are empty. “...why you’re drunk,” he finishes.

Crowley’s eyes widen in exaggerated affront. “I am not! I’m just—” He leans forward, as if wanting to stand, but then falls back, clearly unbalanced. He mumbles something.

“What?” Aziraphale coaxes, fighting back a smile.

“Got bored waiting for you,” Crowley says, the words blending together. “Wanted to, dunno, celebrate Christmas together, but I got... like I said, bored. And we had these...” He gestures at the empty eggnog and rum bottles.

“Oh, dear...”

Crowley leans into him, grasping at his hands. “Wait, are you angry with me? Sweetheart, no. Don’t be angry with me.”

Aziraphale puts an arm around his shoulders, trying not to smile. “I’m not angry, Crowley.”

“Good.” Crowley nuzzles at Aziraphale’s neck. “Like I said, we need to celebrate Christmas.”

His hand comes to rest on Aziraphale’s leg, then inches upward.

“Come on, gorgeous...” he breathes, and it’s almost a hiss, and certainly a temptation. It would probably have worked, too, were it not for the way his words are slurring involuntarily.

Aziraphale glances away, which ends up being a mistake—Crowley nips at the underside of his jaw.

He starts giggling when Aziraphale lets out a soft gasp. “It’s not even Christmas yet,” is his token protest.

“Details.” Deft fingers are working at the buttons of his vest and shirt, exposing skin to eager hands and lips.

“Crowley…” The name comes out less like a protest and more like a sigh.

“Am I making you uncomfortable, my beloved?” he asks with a smirk that’s practically audible, though he doesn’t move away.

Aziraphale purses his lips. If he’s honest with himself, Crowley’s attentions are far from discomforting; he only wishes they were either both sober or intoxicated. Preferably the latter, considering how warm his cheeks feel from all these unexpected endearments. This is… new, a departure from the usual “Angel.” He’s surprised by how affected he is by it all.

“Not at all,” he says. This time, though, he summons enough self-control to sit up and to shift to the other end of the couch, out of Crowley’s reach. “But, Crowley, wait.”

He receives a withering glare in response, and Crowley tries to follow, but loses his balance and has to catch himself on the cushions. “Ugh,” he says. “Why?”

“Because,” Aziraphale says with a sigh, “you’re drunk.”

“I don’t have to be.” Good heavens, is he batting his eyelashes? “I’ll give you anything you want, dearest.”

Aziraphale can’t help it; he makes an involuntary noise, hiding his face in his hand. But something still bothers him. Crowley has obviously intended this to be a romantic date, which they haven’t really done before. They usually… skip ahead. So Aziraphale doesn’t understand what should be different about tonight, nor why Crowley is… like this.

“Crowley,” he murmurs, “I want… I want you not to feel you have to prove anything to me. What are you doing?”

Crowley sags back against the couch cushions, and he blinks hard. Some of the bleariness fades from his eyes, and Aziraphale realizes he’s making an effort to sober up. When he speaks, he sounds more serious. “What makes you think I’m trying to prove something?”

“Rose petals, for one.”

Crowley scowls. “What, do you  _ not _ want me to dramatically seduce you in the firelight?”

“I didn’t say that,” Aziraphale says, a smile rising to his mouth without his bidding. “But, my dear… did you drink so much because you’re nervous?”

Crowley doesn’t meet his gaze, fiddling with the couch fabric. “I don’t know,” he whispers finally. “I suppose… well, it’s our first Christmas. Y’know, together.”

Aziraphale stares at him, illuminated by the golden glow of the fire. The sharp angles of Crowley’s face are softened, and his eyes are shades of amber and honey.

“You’re beautiful,” Aziraphale whispers, “and I adore you. You have nothing to prove, my love, because you captivated me long ago.”

He slides closer and turns Crowley’s head so they can look at each other. “That said, if you’d  _ like _ to dramatically seduce me in the firelight as an early Christmas gift, I am not opposed in the slightest.”

Now is Crowley’s turn to blush, but his mouth turns up at the corners. “Yeah?”

In answer, Aziraphale snaps his fingers. Two new bottles appear on the table—eggnog and rum.

At the sight of them, Crowley grins. “Well, darling. Let me tempt you…” He trails off, letting the words he might have said next linger in the air between their mouths.

Aziraphale pulls him in by the scarf then, kissing him hard and pressing him into the couch and tousling that glorious hair. When he starts pressing kisses to Crowley’s neck, he registers the hitch in Crowley’s breath.

“Am I making you uncomfortable, my dear?” he asks with a smirk.

Crowley laughs, breathless, and clutches him tighter. “I didn’t say that.”

The drinks remain on the table, forgotten.


	15. Laughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first December after the world doesn't end, Crowley and Aziraphale go ice skating.

A few days before Christmas, Aziraphale makes a suggestion.

“We should go ice skating.”

Crowley freezes, cup of coffee halfway to his mouth. “Er… why?”

“Why not?” Aziraphale shrugs, and takes a sip of his tea. “It would be fun.”

Crowley narrows his eyes at him. “What are you plotting?”

“Nothing!” Aziraphale’s shoulders slump. “I only think we should do something enjoyable. We haven’t exactly had an easy year.”

Crowley can’t argue with that; even after averting the Apocalypse, they’ve been on edge. Looking over their shoulders constantly after their trials, keeping up the secrecy of their meetings, and—in Crowley’s case—not sleeping all that well.

Perhaps Aziraphale is right. Still, it doesn’t stop Crowley from feeling nervous.

“Okay,” he says, swallowing down his insecurity. He can’t say no to Aziraphale, especially when he looks at Crowley with such sweetness.

— — — 

“Are you sure about this?” Crowley asks, aiming for nonchalant as he laces up the rental skates. They fit quite well, which surprises him. He wonders if Aziraphale performed a miracle to make them so, then remembers neither of them are performing miracles right now; it’s too risky to draw undue attention to themselves, after all.

“Of course,” Aziraphale says with a grin. He looks delighted, giddy, so excited to be doing this that Crowley feels guilty all of a sudden for being nervous. “It’s been a few years since I went skating,” he goes on. “I do hope I remember how.”

“It’s like riding a bike, Angel,” Crowley says. He tries to sound certain, when in fact he is… well, not. He stands, wobbling a bit on the blades, but Aziraphale takes his hand and tugs him along.

The ice rink is crowded, and as Aziraphale pulls Crowley onto the ice, he flinches when a group of rowdy teens flash by, shrieking. Aziraphale glides away from Crowley, and the safety of the edge of the rink.

“Wait, A—Angel?” he cries, grabbing at the wall frantically. “Don’t go!”

Aziraphale spins around, all grace and confidence. “Crowley? What is it?”

Crowley can’t speak, he’s too focused on keeping his balance. Aziraphale skates back to his side, hands coming to rest on his shoulders.

“Oh, my dear,” he says, his voice full of mirth, “why didn’t you say anything?”

“About what?” Crowley flicks his hair out of his eyes.

Aziraphale doesn’t buy it. “Do you not know how to skate?”

“What? Of course! Of course I do!”

“Crowley.”

He sighs. “I know the theory.”

Aziraphale’s expression softens, though he looks as though he’s holding back laughter. “Come on, I’ll show you. Give me your hands.”

“Wh—what?” Crowley obeys, but he feels fear rise up within him. “I…”

Aziraphale’s grip is secure, though, and he guides Crowley away from the edge of the rink. “There,” he says. “Simple.”

“Yeah,” Crowley says, his voice coming out higher than usual. “Simple.”

Aziraphale grins. He coaches Crowley, until they’ve made a slow and cautious lap around the rink, with Aziraphale moving backwards so Crowley can hold onto his hands.

After that, Crowley’s managing to smile, and to look up from his feet. But then, Aziraphale lets go of one of his hands.

“What are you doing?” Crowley squeaks, tightening his grip on Aziraphale’s other hand. “Angel? I…”

Aziraphale squeezes his hand back, and now he’s shifted so they’re skating side by side. “You can do this, Crowley,” is all he says, and they continue on, around the rink. Other skaters pass by them quickly, laughing and chasing and leaping and twirling.

Crowley glances at Aziraphale, who moves with such ease. Despite his concern that he wouldn’t remember how to do this, he is clearly comfortable and competent on the ice. Crowley wonders if he can do what some of the other skaters do, spins and jumps and tricks that look like dancing.

He abruptly feels a sting of guilt. If only he knew how to do this, if only he weren’t clumsy and unsteady and foolish, Aziraphale could skate as he probably wants to. If not for Crowley holding him back, Aziraphale could do something that makes him happy.

“Are you all right, my dear?” Aziraphale asks a minute later, gazing at him in concern.

Crowley forces himself to nod. “Yeah,” he says. “Are you having fun, Angel?”

Aziraphale squeezes his hand. “Of course I am.” His eyes linger on Crowley, though, too keen and observant. “Why would you think otherwise?”

Crowley looks down at his feet again. “Dunno.”

“Crowley,” he says, his soft voice barely audible over the chaos around them. “I’m with you. Of course I’m having a good time.”

“But I’m rubbish at this.”

“You needn’t be good at it for this to be enjoyable.” Aziraphale maneuvers them so their arms are linked now, and he presses against Crowley’s side, not enough to upset his tentative balance, but enough to reassure. “I’m not particularly skilled myself.”

 _Better than me_ , Crowley thinks.

Aziraphale presses a kiss to his shoulder, as if he sensed what Crowley didn’t say. They skate on, arm in arm, and eventually Crowley feels more confident in his abilities to not immediately collapse face-first onto the ice.

“Thanks,” he mutters.

Aziraphale smiles. “Of course, my dear.”

That’s still something to get used to—that startling yet wonderful endearment. Before Armageddon, Aziraphale so rarely showed him overt affection. Such a thing was too dangerous, with the eyes of heaven and hell on them with such frequency. Even in their stolen moments throughout the millennia when they could come together and press close as they’ve both always craved, they were too busy glancing over their shoulders, ensuring they were truly alone, to _really_ enjoy themselves. Now, only in the last few weeks has Aziraphale started being so bold. He’s fearlessly held Crowley’s hand, kissed him, gazed at him with such profound adoration, in _public_.

“Angel,” Crowley says, though he hates that he’s feeling so... needy. “Why are we really doing this?”

Aziraphale turns to him, his cobalt eyes seeing too much, so Crowley fumbles on, “I know you didn’t ask me because you just decided on a whim to go ice skating.”

A trio of raucous skaters, chasing each other and shrieking, dart by, and Crowley and Aziraphale are buffeted to the side of the rink. Aziraphale’s arm wraps around Crowley, protective, making sure he doesn’t lose his balance. Crowley leans into the touch—but not because he needs to—and smiles.

“I brought us here,” Aziraphale says, “because I don’t want us to be afraid anymore. We’ve spent so long being cautious, and paranoid, and I want it to stop. We’re safe now, Crowley. Our head offices can’t do anything to us now, and Armageddon isn’t coming.”

“If anything, we’ve only bought ourselves a bit of time—”

“Yes, but we should enjoy it, don’t you think? Not spend it afraid, trying not to be seen doing anything wrong. After all,” Aziraphale grins now, leaning into Crowley’s space with a hint of mischief in his eyes, “how could kissing someone as gorgeous as you be wrong?”

Crowley beats him to it, though, pressing his lips to Aziraphale’s. It’s either kissing, or making an utter fool of himself by getting very emotional. He wants this; he wants to be safe to kiss Aziraphale anywhere he wants. Yet now that it seems he can, he’s terrified. It feels too good to be true. But now, he manages to push away all that, just for the moment.

So he sinks into Aziraphale’s touch, into the familiarity of his lips. Then, he smiles, and so has to break off the kiss.

“Angel,” he sighs.

Aziraphale hugs him close, then steps back. “Come on, dear. Shall we?”

Crowley nods, but when Aziraphale makes to take his hand again, he hesitates. “Wait, I want to try it on my own,” he says.

Aziraphale nods, eyes soft. “All right.”

Crowley pushes off the wall, gliding just as Aziraphale taught him. But he’s also trying to keep an eye on the other skaters, and so he can’t watch his feet. And before he can realize what’s happening, before he even makes it ten feet across the ice, he’s on the ground in a heap. And shit, ice is _hard._

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasps. Crowley hears him rush forward, but the absurdity of the situation crashes over him. He’s a demon who’s thwarted the apocalypse, who spends his free time kissing an angel, who’s spent years on edge and afraid of his superiors, who doesn’t know how to ice skate.

He bursts out laughing. It’s a laugh that emerges from somewhere deep inside him, somehow cleansing and relieving. He’s shaking with it, face buried in his hands, by the time Aziraphale reaches him, kneels down, puts gentle hands on Crowley to assess he’s all right.

“Are you—?” he starts to ask, but Crowley yanks him close, still giggling helplessly. After a moment, Aziraphale laughs too, though he sounds a bit uncertain.

“Crowley,” he tries again. “Are you all right?”

He looks up into Aziraphale’s familiar, beloved eyes, and brushes tears of mirth off his own cheeks. “I’m fine,” he says.

And he is, he thinks. He’ll be stressed and worried and paranoid again, he knows. He’ll fear that the world is ending again, he knows. He’ll cling to Aziraphale, terrified that what they have will be torn away, he knows. But not now. Now, he can only laugh, because they’re safe and together, and the world isn’t over, and he doesn’t know how to skate—it’s all so ridiculously glorious.

“I’m fine,” he says again.

They get up, Aziraphale brushing bits of ice clinging to Crowley’s coat, and skate on. They link hands, for all the world to see. They spin round and round, teasing and laughing and dancing across the ice.


	16. Ice Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley take shelter together during a storm in Scotland.

Aziraphale shivers and pulls his furs closer about his body, trying in vain to ward off the frigid air. The weather has been worsening steadily, the skies going grayer and the rain turning to sleet. He is starting to worry he will not find the village at all now.

He reaches the top of a hill and stops. This cannot be the right way; he should be heading away from the mountains, not toward them.

Oh, dear.

And then, carried by the wind, comes a voice.

“Is that you, Aziraphale?”

He spins around, startled, and almost slips on the slick ground. But a hand reaches out to steady him—a familiar hand.

“Crowley?” he breathes, relieved and surprised in equal measure.

“What the bloody heaven are you doing here?”

A strong gust crashes in then, and Aziraphale cannot help the pained gasp as the sleet stings his face. He can hardly see Crowley now, just a smudge of a figure, only recognizable because of his flaming red hair.

He thinks he hears a hiss of aggravation, and the hand on his arm slides down to take his hand. “Come on,” Crowley calls over the gale. “We need to get out of here.”

Aziraphale has no idea where “here” is, but perhaps Crowley has a better inkling, so he follows. They both struggle to get back down the hill in the roaring wind and ice. More than once, they almost fall, and must catch each other. By the time they reach the bottom, Aziraphale fears they will be frozen together by the time they reach whatever their destination is.

“Where are we going?” he shouts.

“I know a place,” is all Crowley says.

They stagger along for what feels like ages. Aziraphale has half a mind to ask Crowley to curse this entire region of Scotland by the time a small structure appears before them. It’s a half-fallen little building, certainly not inhabited, but Aziraphale cannot bring himself to care, as long as he can be out of this dreadful weather.

“Fuck!” Crowley snarls once he shoves the door open and half-falls inside.

“Er… yes, rather.” Aziraphale forces the door closed, or as near to closed as he can manage, and turns to face Crowley. The place is a mess, clearly abandoned for some time. But there is a small pit, probably for a cooking fire. Half the roof is collapsed, but Crowley snaps his fingers, and Aziraphale can sense it will stay put, and allow none of the ice and sleet inside.

“Fuck,” Crowley mutters again, whirling to face Aziraphale directly. “What are you _doing_ here, Angel? In the middle of the Scottish countryside, in December?”

Aziraphale shifts. “Work, what else? I was supposed to be going to Lochend but I got a bit… turned around.”

“Yeah, clearly.” Crowley sits on the ground. He’s wearing all black, as usual, this time in the form of soft-looking furs and wool. But he seems to be shivering, and it drives Aziraphale forward.

“Here,” he says, and sets about making a fire. A useful skill he’s picked up.

“You could just miracle that,” Crowley says. “Actually, you could have miracled yourself to Lochend.”

“I know, but…”

Crowley’s eyebrows raise. “What, get another warning from Gabriel?”

Aziraphale swallows. “Maybe.”

Crowley chuckles, then tilts his head to watch Aziraphale piling wood in the pit. Long minutes—too many minutes—pass before he at last manages to spark a flame. He blows on it, and soon, a fire is crackling away and spreading its warmth into Aziraphale’s chilled body.

“Thank you,” he says. “For helping me.”

Crowley shrugs. “’S nothing, Angel. I was in the neighborhood. Had some business around these parts for, y’know, downstairs.”

He glances at Aziraphale, though, with a small smile—one that, on anyone else, Aziraphale might describe as shy. Of course, this is Crowley, and so that’s absurd. “Glad I bumped into you though. Been a while, hasn’t it?”

Aziraphale considers him, remembering the last time they’ve seen each other, in Paris. The Bastille, the sound of the guillotine, that awful disguise. Still, seeing Crowley had been a relief.

“It has, but then, that’s fitting,” Aziraphale says. “We are supposed to be enemies, Crowley.”

“Yeaaah, but…” Crowley wrinkles his nose. “You know we’re really friends.” The fire does wonders for him, Aziraphale notices. His amber eyes seem to shine, and his sharp jawline is softened. He is utterly lovely.

Aziraphale looks away, uncomfortable with these thoughts, even after all this time. He can hardly admit to it, can he, being friends with a demon, finding him lovely? His gaze lands on the door they came through instead, shaking a bit on its rusted hinges against the storm, which still rages beyond it.

“We’re not friends.”

Against his will, his gaze returns to Crowley, whose brow has furrowed, whose mouth has set in a tight line. But this is for their own safety, isn’t it? Aziraphale doesn’t enjoy that he’s clearly hurt Crowley’s feelings, but the risk is too great. Contemplating the things their head offices would do to them, if they knew of this strange bond, terrifies Aziraphale.

Still. He doesn’t like the look on Crowley’s face.

“We’re… allies,” he concedes.

Only when Crowley slides away does Aziraphale realize that he had shifted closer, as if he _wanted_ to be close to him. Yet Crowley isn’t looking at him, as he mutters, “Right.”

That one word twists something inside Aziraphale. _I’m sorry_ , he wants to say, _we are friends, we_ are _, but I can’t say it, as much as I want to. I want to say that, and more. I want you to sit close to me, to reach for me, and I think I want to reach back. Maybe I can someday. Maybe I will. For now… please wait?_

But he says none of that. He only watches the fire, listens to the storm, and hopes that a day will come when he can face both things, and can be brave enough to reach for Crowley as he does.


	17. Ornament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's Christmas tree changes through the years.

Ever since the bookshop first opened, Aziraphale has had a pine tree for the holidays. Crowley has scoffed at it; the tradition began to ward off evil spirits and demons and the like. What, he wondered back then, is Aziraphale trying to say?

Aziraphale, of course, had insisted that he didn’t mean anything by it. Crowley had grinned then, to let him know he was joking. He has, after all, taken a rather twisted delight in not being affected by the humans’ strange ideas of what wards off demons.

The first years, Aziraphale covers the tree in tiny white candles. Crowley has to admit—though not aloud—that the effect is pleasant. And Aziraphale’s joyful face is... well, endearing.

Crowley is visiting the bookshop one evening, listening to Aziraphale chat with a young man about some book or other, when he notices a drip of wax fall from a candle onto the carpet. In that moment, Crowley becomes aware of how perilous this is, having open flames, however small, in a building full of books. Granted, Crowley isn’t particularly attached to the books, but Aziraphale is. He would be devastated if the bookshop burned down...

As quietly as he can, Crowley snaps his fingers. The candles’ flames flicker in unison, and he grins. They won’t burn anything other than their own wicks now. No need to fear for the books’ safety.

Not that any of it matters to Crowley, of course.

— — —

The bookshop has been open for many years, and still the evergreen arrives every December. Tinsel is all the rage now, though Crowley doesn’t quite understand the appeal. Just bits of silver stuff, isn’t it? Not nearly as interesting as candles—though, he concedes, safer.

Aziraphale, at the moment, is laughing with a customer, who has stopped browsing to help him get tinsel on the branches nearest the wall. From his seat on the couch, Crowley can observe the way Aziraphale’s eyes crinkle at the corners. It’s a detail he once might not have paid heed to, but now feels inordinately fond of.

The customer leaves without buying anything, clearly to Aziraphale’s relief. He bustles off with a pile of books to shelve, but not before he gives Crowley a small smile.

The next day, Crowley slips into the shop unnoticed, and adds a few bits of tinsel to the highest branches. 

— — —

The lightbulb is a marvelous invention. People are staying up later than they ever have before, and it’s ruining their sleep patterns. They’re getting grumpy because of it, and sowing general malcontent because of that. It’s brilliant.

Crowley gets a commendation, even though he actually had nothing to do with it. Yes, he happened to be in the same town when the invention was perfected, but it really was a coincidence. Not that he’s going to tell his head office.

One December, some years after saving the idiotic angel from Nazis and a bomb, he strolls into the bookshop to find a string of small lights on the tree. About time he gave in to that trend, Crowley thinks. Aziraphale is beaming, face cast in tones of gold and holiday cheer, and if Crowley had a heart, it would have stopped.

Oh, no.

Trying to hide the panic that this revelation has wrought, Crowley compliments Aziraphale on the new decoration. Safer than candles, after all, and more striking than tinsel. Aziraphale has kept both, though in fewer quantities. Still, the tree is pleasantly crowded, sparkling and joyous.

Aziraphale blushes in response to the praise, and again, something seizes inside Crowley.

He thought he had this under control, after all these years, but no. Apparently not.

That evening, a tipsy Aziraphale notices the string of lights has gone out, and his previously carefree expression dissolves into one of abject disappointment.

Crowley can’t stop himself; with a snap of his fingers, the broken bulb is fixed, and the lights pop back on.

The grateful look Aziraphale gives him fuels Crowley for decades, even as it makes his breath catch.

— — —

Aziraphale has had ornaments on his tree for years, nestled among the candles and tinsel and light bulbs. Crowley doesn’t pay attention to them, though, until one day in December 1967.

He’s spent months replaying the last conversation he had with Aziraphale in his mind, over and over and over. Analyzing, aching, agonizing.

Aziraphale clearly doesn’t want to see him, why would he?He’s given Crowley the holy water, and left without looking back. Crowley knew he would always drive him away.

And yet. He doesn’t want to let go. It’s December; everywhere are reminders of family and reunion and connection, until Crowley can stand it no longer. He buys an angel ornament from a Christmas market—he’s never claimed to be subtle—and shoves his hair under a cap. Puts on the most nondescript clothes he owns. Slithers through the bookshop door when he sees several other people inside. Hangs the ornament on the tree, and flees.

A silent, unwanted, pathetic apology.

— — —

He can’t help it. He returns every year, a different ornament slid into his pocket, ready to find a new home on Aziraphale’s tree. Crowley never musters the courage to talk to Aziraphale, or to allow himself to be noticed. Useless penance, he supposes, in his more self-aware yet self-loathing moments.

When Warlock arrives, they reconcile, thrown together again by necessity but suddenly reminded of all the reasons they’ve worked together. And Crowley could fly. Without wings, even—he could spread his arms and take to the sky. Aziraphale is looking at him, speaking to him, laughing with him again. If this is the end of the world, it’s surely worth it.

But he continues as he has been—every December, a new ornament. He knows Aziraphale’s schedule better now, knows when he will be with Warlock, and so knows the best time to sneak inside the shop.

The tree is laden with ornaments by now, many brought by Crowley, but some given by customers or purchased by Aziraphale himself. They come in all varieties: animals, angels, painted glass balls, handmade pieces that look like stained glass windows, tiny books, teacups.

The year Warlock is born, Crowley adds an ornament in the shape of a baby shoe—with the words “baby’s first Christmas” in swirling font—to the collection. Ridiculous? Perhaps, but Crowley doesn’t care. Aziraphale is his friend, really his friend again, and what else matters?

The year Warlock gains a nanny and a gardener, he adds a flower pot ornament.

The year before Warlock is to destroy the world, he adds a miniature Eiffel Tower. To remember better times, to remember places they have been safe together. To remember crepes and laughter, solace even in the midst of destruction and violence.

The year the Antichrist turns eleven and they almost lose everything, Crowley hesitates. Only a few months ago, he was sure he would never give Aziraphale another ornament, that they would die in flames and floods, perhaps at the hands of those they were supposed to have been obeying all this time. 

But here they are in December, still exhilarated from their narrow escape, and Crowley has no idea how to commemorate it in one small, secret gift. He doesn’t know why it matters so much; Aziraphale has never even mentioned the ornaments’ sudden appearances. If he thinks they are some kind of spontaneous phenomenon, he has never said so to Crowley.

Finally, three days before Christmas, Crowley settles on a rubber duck ornament, and adds it to the tree when he’s alone in the room. He hopes when Aziraphale sees it, it makes him smile.

— — —

More than a year passes since an eleven-year-old boy did not destroy the world, and before Crowley realizes it, winter has come again. He finds himself alone one day, on the Southbank. Aziraphale had wanted to see some sort of choir perform at St. Paul’s, and Crowley had followed along, as he always does. Always seeking and finding Aziraphale, always wanting and inventing reasons to stay close.

He couldn’t go in, of course, to hear the choir, so he parted ways with Aziraphale outside, promising to take him to dinner later. Now, he’s a stone’s throw from the Globe Theatre, surrounded by an aggressively festive holiday market, trying to be patient.

He buys a cocoa, but only because it’s spiked with Irish cream. Certainly not because he’s developed a liking for cocoa, after all these years around Aziraphale.

In the stall next door, Crowley spots ornaments and pauses. He hasn’t settled on one yet, wondering if he should even bother to continue with this secret tradition. Out of habit, he approaches, examining the options. Some are too similar to ones he’s already given Aziraphale, some Aziraphale won’t understand—Crowley still shudders when he remembers trying to explain the meanings of emojis, so those ornaments are out—and some just aren’t right for… well, for them.

But one small section features simpler ornaments, and they catch Crowley’s eye. Globes, with various colors for the oceans, and silver and gold for the land. One is light blue and pale gold, precisely the shades Aziraphale favors.

And he remembers how, over a year ago, Aziraphale had raised a glass in the Ritz. “To the world,” he had said. A declaration of love Crowley couldn’t not echo.

“I’ll take this one,” Crowley tells the stall attendant.

— — —

Christmas is days away, and Crowley has yet to add his newest purchase to the tree. This one seems to have more weight, for some reason, even though Crowley tells himself this is irrational. He’s done this for years; it should be routine.

But then, this is the first year they aren’t holding their breath, waiting for the worst. Even last year, only months after the confrontation at the airbase, they had been braced for impact, whether in the form of nuclear missiles and raining fish, or holy water and hellfire again. This year, they’ve started to truly believe they’re safe. But that makes this a beginning, doesn’t it? Aziraphale had said “to the world,” and Crowley, fool that he is, has got one for him.

He might as well have carved out his soul, surely glowing with affection, to offer to Aziraphale.

So he hesitates.

— — —

Christmas Day arrives, and Crowley is still paralyzed. The lights on Aziraphale’s Christmas tree sparkle even more enthusiastically than usual, and he wonders if he’s performed a miracle to make them so. He would, wouldn’t he? Crowley smiles in spite of himself.

Aziraphale seems to sparkle too, full of joy he’s picking up on from the humans, and of joy he manifests in himself. They spend the day together in the bookshop, eating and drinking all sorts of holiday treats, and Crowley almost thinks he’ll get away with it this year. He doesn’t have to give Aziraphale a secret gift for the angel to enjoy the day.

But then, without warning, Aziraphale asks a question.

“By the way, my dear, did you forget this year?”

Crowley glances up from trying to twirl his wine glass like a top. He’s rather tipsy, not sure what he’s doing, and not sure what Aziraphale is talking about.

“Forget what?”

Aziraphale looks toward the tree. “Well, an ornament.”

Shit. Shitshitshit.

Crowley freezes, and the wine glass rolls off the table onto the rug. “Er… y—you… know about… that?”

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “Of course I knew. You’re not exactly subtle, you know.”

“I— wh— but—”

Next to him, Aziraphale is smiling now, so soft Crowley actually  _ wants _ to discorporate, just a little, or at least find a form that can soak in the feeling that expression creates in him. “I didn’t catch on to it the first few years, but who else would reliably do something like this? Certainly not any of the customers, or the… head office. But really, Crowley, did you truly not want me to know? The ‘baby’s first Christmas’ one was a bit of a giveaway.”

“Ngk—”

Aziraphale shifts closer, a furrow in his brow. “If you forgot this year, it’s all right, you know. I don’t mind. I ought to get a second tree as it is, to hold all of them.”

“I—” Crowley swallows down whatever the rest of that sentence might have been. He isn’t sure why—perhaps this is the wine’s fault—but he didn’t see this conversation coming.

And the globe ornament, still wrapped in its box, is tucked away in the pot of one of Crowley’s plants, which has migrated here in the last few months.

“I didn’t forget,” he blurts. Then, he buries his face in his hands. “I didn’t forget, I promise.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale puts a tentative hand on his shoulder. “You didn’t?”

Crowley shakes his head. Come on, he scolds, this isn’t a big deal. “Maybe,” he mutters.

Aziraphale laughs softly. “Well,” he says, “you don’t have to give it to me, if you don’t want to. I’ll not mention this again, if you prefer.”

He groans. Why, Angel, must you be so  _ kind  _ all the time? He wants to lean into Aziraphale’s touch, let himself be held for a moment, and let Aziraphale pretend to forget all this.

But Aziraphale had said “to the world,” and that’s exactly what he deserves.

So Crowley lifts his head. “Wait here.” He stands—staggers, really, from tipsiness and nerves—and hurries to the plant, pushing aside leaves to pull out the bag full of tissue paper and his impulsive, momentous purchase. He returns to Aziraphale and holds it out. Wishes it doesn’t feel like he’s holding out the symbol of everything he feels.

Aziraphale takes the bag gently, as if it’s made of more than glass and paper, as if he already treasures it simply because it’s come from Crowley. He removes the ornament, and the paper falls away to reveal the globe. Crowley can’t look, so he doesn’t; he retrieves his fallen glass and pours himself more wine.

“Oh,” is all Aziraphale says. Crowley pretends not to hear, pretends to focus on drinking.

But then Aziraphale shifts close again, hand carefully taking the glass out of Crowley’s hand and placing it on the table. “You remember what I said in the Ritz,” he whispers.

Crowley nods. “You said it. Of course I remember.” He’s never forgotten anything Aziraphale has said, or done. He doesn’t think he could, even if he wanted to. Not that he wants to.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says. “It’s beautiful.”

Crowley manages to look at him then, because somehow over the centuries, the word  _ beautiful _ means the same thing as Aziraphale’s name. “You like it?” he says.

“Of course I do. I love all the ornaments. But…” Is Aziraphale blushing? “This one is particularly lovely. As I said, it’s beautiful, so…” He’s definitely blushing, oh shit, what is happening? “So it suits you, my dear.”

What.

Crowley must have said that aloud, because Aziraphale blushes harder. “You heard me.”

“Aziraphale—”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s expression is calm, certain, and… loving. It’s fortunate Crowley doesn’t need to breathe. “I’m going to go put the ornament on the tree, and then, I’m going to come back here and kiss you. If that’s amenable to you, of course.”

Crowley can’t speak—he might never regain the ability, to be frank—but he nods. He grins, too, an incredulous, euphoric grin.

Aziraphale grins back, and he does get up, and he does put the ornament on the tree, nestled among all the others. And he does come back, and he does kiss Crowley.

And in between kisses and laughs, they say those words again.

“To the world.”


	18. Cookies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley tries to cheer up a melancholy Aziraphale.

Crowley comes downstairs one morning to find Aziraphale curled up in his armchair by the fire, nestled under a blanket and sipping a cup of tea. It’s a typical sight since they’ve moved out of London, but when Aziraphale looks up at him, Crowley senses something is different.

“Good morning, my dear,” he says, and Crowley tenses. He sounds tired, not his usual cheery self.

Crowley leans over the back of the armchair and kisses the top of Aziraphale’s head. “Morning. You all right?”

“Of course.” He reaches up blindly, and Crowley moves so that Aziraphale’s hand cradles his chin. He doesn’t elaborate, but does give a small half-smile when Crowley kisses his palm.

“Is the water still hot?”

Aziraphale nods, so Crowley heads to the kitchen to make himself tea. He’s been weaning himself off coffee lately, for a lark, just to see if he can. That, and to see the way Aziraphale lights up whenever he has an excuse to use the tea set.

He leans against the counter, blowing away the steam on his tea. From here, the top of Aziraphale’s head is just visible.

Crowley wonders what’s bothering him. Clearly, he’s lost in his head for some reason. Perhaps it’s the holidays, a time of such heightened emotions, good and bad and everything in between. Crowley knows Aziraphale feels the weight of the humans’ joy and pain, and it can overwhelm him, the darling empathetic angel.

Or perhaps he’s feeling this way for no reason at all.

Once he finishes his tea, Crowley goes outside and wanders about the hibernating garden, giving Aziraphale space. There’s no gardening to do at the moment, no leaves to rake, no repotting to do. So he wanders among the plants, for once silent as he wonders what is bothering Aziraphale. Then, he scolds himself, and tries to distract himself by scolding an unsuspecting rhododendron.

After a while, though, he’s too cold, and misses Aziraphale, so he returns to the cottage. Inside, the fire is low in the hearth, and he stokes it, then stays on the floor by it to warm up.

Aziraphale hasn’t moved, as far as Crowley can tell. He has a book open in his lap, and a Billie Holiday album playing, but he doesn’t seem to be enjoying himself. There’s something in his face, some indefinable but tangible micro-expression, that brings a quiet worry to life inside Crowley. He wishes miracles worked on this sort of thing, but emotions are so finicky… 

He’ll have to get creative.

He sits by the fireside for a few more minutes, stretched out and soaking in the heat emanating from the hearth. After a few minutes scrolling through his phone, he comes up with a plan, but waits; he can’t be obvious about this.

When Aziraphale finishes his tea, Crowley gets up and takes the cup from him.

“I can get it, Crowley,” Aziraphale says.

“I don’t mind,” Crowley replies, squeezes his hand, and makes his way into the kitchen. He drops the empty teacup into the sink, then spends the next few minutes searching through cupboards for ingredients. Aziraphale is the one who cooks most of the time, so this is rather new territory for Crowley. However, shortbread with tea and vanilla will surely make Aziraphale smile, won’t it?

He’s located the flour and sugar and eggs, but is still seeking the rest when he hears Aziraphale come into the room.

“Whatever are you up to?” he asks. Crowley looks up and finds him in the doorway, head tilted in a quizzical way, a ghost of a smile on his mouth.

“Baking,” Crowley says quickly.

“Baking? This is what I get for showing you The Great British Bake-Off.”

Crowley smiles, sheepish. “Maybe.”

They gaze at each other for a moment, wordless, and then Aziraphale’s expression shifts. “I’m sorry I’ve been so…”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Crowley interrupts gently.

“But—”

“You don’t,” he insists.

After a moment, Aziraphale nods, though he doesn’t look entirely convinced. Crowley returns to digging through the cupboards.

“Do you… need any help?”

Crowley glances over his shoulder, calculating his answer. “If you feel up to it,” he says with a measured shrug, “or you can just keep me company, if you prefer.”

“I want to help,” Aziraphale says. He joins Crowley in front of the counter, his soft eyes earnest. “What do you need me to do?”

“Well, first,” Crowley says, a thrill going through him at having Aziraphale so near, “may I kiss you?”

Aziraphale smiles. “You know the answer to that is always yes.”

“I know, but…” Crowley leans forward so their foreheads touch. “I guess I’m still getting used to being allowed to touch you whenever I want to.”

Aziraphale kisses him, a warm and tender thing, then pulls back. “Crowley, our first kiss was, what, a thousand years ago?”

“So?”

Now, Aziraphale chuckles and kisses him once more, briefly. “Come on, dear. What ingredients do you still need?”

Crowley lets him go, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. “Where’re the vanilla pods? Don’t we have some?”

“With the spices.”

“That’s not a spice! They’re a… well, all right, maybe they are,” he finishes, as he spins the spice rack and finds the canister of vanilla pods.

Aziraphale’s answering laugh is simultaneously a relief and a joy.

They manage to prepare the dough without incident, though they disagree about how much earl grey to add to the mix. Aziraphale had tried to insist they follow the recipe, but Crowley had been in favor of adding an entire teabag. They compromised by adding most of the teabag instead, but as they bickered, Crowley found himself simply glad Aziraphale seemed more lively.

“How long is this supposed to chill?”

Aziraphale consults the recipe on Crowley’s phone. “At least two hours, up to twenty-four.”

Crowley nods, sets the roll of dough in the refrigerator, and leans against the counter. Aziraphale catches his eye, then visibly bites back a laugh.

“What?” Crowley glances down at himself, then back up.

Aziraphale points at his cheek. “You… darling, somehow you’ve got confectioner’s sugar…”

“Shit,” Crowley brushes it away, then scowls when Aziraphale chuckles. “Oh, shut it.”

But Aziraphale is grinning, and it’s glorious, and so an unexpected sense of playfulness—or perhaps of insanity—comes over Crowley. He takes a generous pinch of sugar from the bag and tosses it haphazardly in Aziraphale’s direction. Aziraphale gasps, affronted, and dodges. Crowley pursues, and they end up pressed together, against the counter, laughing and both now streaked with sugar.

Crowley meets Aziraphale’s eyes. They shine with mirth, gratitude, and a tinge of stubborn melancholy that insists on lingering. But it’s all right, because he’s here in Crowley’s arms, and soon they’ll slice the dough and bake the shortbread. Aziraphale will probably insist they have tea as well, and they’ll debate if they should have the same tea they’ve put in the dough or a different blend. But it won’t matter to Crowley, really, because Aziraphale will be beaming as he gets out his tea set, and the shortbread will be delicious regardless.

And for the moment, Aziraphale is in Crowley’s arms, and his lips taste of sugar, and they are all right.


	19. Wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Northern Lights, 1262 and 2019.

Iceland, 1262.

Snow-capped mountains rise up in front of the deep navy sky. Crowley rubs his arms, trying to work the heat of the campfire deeper than just the surface of his skin. He knows he needs to get to the city, but something about being out here, under the stars he’s missed so much, makes him want to linger here for the night.

Then, something in the sky catches his eye, and he looks up from the fire.

“Oh, you beauty,” he breathes.

Vivid ribbons of light are warping the night sky, shades of green and pink and turquoise. They seem to move, shimmering and dancing against the black. Something about them makes Crowley wistful, though he wants to resent the feeling. He’s a demon, dammit; he isn’t supposed to be thoughtful and maudlin and shit.

Yet telling himself doesn’t stop it. And without warning, and without wanting to, he finds himself wondering—what would it be like to have someone here now? Someone to share this with, to tell all the science and magic behind this glorious light show?

He hates that he knows what loneliness feels like.

He watches the lights play, and speaks without thinking. “Hey, God,” he murmurs. “Long time, I know. Not that you would wanna talk to me, but…” He shrugs. “I won’t take long.”

The pink portion of the aurora has intensified, and he’s momentarily enraptured by it. Several minutes pass before he remembers he is in the midst of a one-sided conversation. “Oh, sorry. Yeah, er… I guess I just… I dunno, it’s dumb. But… I know it’s not a star, but does wishing on the aurora count?”

He chuckles. He’s being ridiculous; all of this is ridiculous. He should be getting along, completing the temptation in Reykjavik and moving on.

And yet…

“I wish I weren’t alone all the time,” he tells the aurora, before he kicks dirt over the fire and strides away, disgusted with himself and his stupid, stupid weakness.

— — — 

Norway, 2019.

“I haven’t been to Norway in ages,” Aziraphale is saying, sounding more excited than Crowley would have expected.

“And probably not on holiday?”

“No, actually it was in 1152. Nidaros becoming an archdiocese and all.”

“Of course. Shoulda known you had something to do with that.”

Aziraphale rubs his gloved hands together to warm them, then glances at Crowley. “Oh, dear, come here a moment.”

Crowley obeys, and Aziraphale adjusts his scarf. “You’re going to freeze out here, wearing it loose like that.” He punctuates that statement with a kiss to Crowley’s nose.

“No, ’m not,” Crowley protests feebly, a little stunned by the kiss. He’s still getting used to being shown such regular affection, though he also revels in it.

“Come on, I know there’s a lovely lake around here somewhere.” Aziraphale takes his hand and leads him onward, and they trek through towering trees and around snowdrifts taller than they are, until they find the lake. Well, pond, really, but its still surface under the dim moonlight seems mystical somehow.

Aziraphale sits them on a fallen log near the pond’s edge, and he leans on Crowley’s shoulder. “I’ve been meaning to ask, dear.”

“Hmm?”

“Are you happy? I mean, since we stopped Armageddon? It’s just, so much has changed, not least between you and I, and… well, I suppose I worry it won’t be enough for you, without the temptations and all.”

Crowley stares at him. “Is that why you brought me out here? You think I’ll get bored?”

Aziraphale bites his lip, but Crowley uses his thumb to coax it free again. “No…”

“Aziraphale,” he says, but then, they’re both distracted when they notice the bloom of light above them, which has been increasing gradually for probably quite some time, while they’ve been wrapped up in each other.

“Oh!” Aziraphale breathes, sitting up straight.

The aurora bursts into life, teal and purple and even a shocking bit of blue. Crowley’s heart lightens at the sight of it all.

Then, he turns to Aziraphale, planning to say something, but any words he might have found die on his lips. His Angel’s eyes are wide, his lips parted, his entire being utterly enchanted. And the lights of the aurora cast onto his face, making him even more breathtaking than usual.

Without warning, and without wanting to, Crowley remembers that time, so many years ago, when he had sat under an aurora on a night like this, and had felt such disgust for himself. He remembers feeling alone, to the extent of admitting it _aloud_ , which he hated doing. He remembers what he wished for. He remembers being sure it would never be granted, and hating that he had even bothered to ask for it.

 _Joke’s on you, Crowley_ , he thinks of the self he once was, _looks like you got your wish after all._

“Angel?” he says, and when Aziraphale meets his gaze, asks, “Will you kiss me?”

“You don’t have to ask, Crowley—” Aziraphale replies, but he doesn’t quite finish before Crowley sways forward and presses their mouths together. It’s a soft slide of lips, and Crowley grins so hard it actually makes kissing impractical. They move apart, and Crowley stares at Aziraphale, at the magnificent light show reflecting on the pond, and keeps grinning.

“To answer your question… I am happy, Aziraphale. And I’m about the farthest thing from bored it’s possible to be. I promise you, I’m pretty bloody elated.”

And he is.

Aziraphale lays his head back on Crowley’s shoulder, and Crowley slips an arm around his waist. He looks up, and sends a silent thank you to the sky.


	20. Reindeer

Crowley has wondered, many times, why his job takes him to such strange places. He’s traveled the world and worn all sorts of disguises.

But nothing has been quite like this.

His hat is adorned with a jingle bell, as are his shoes. Everything is green velvet and hideous. This is probably the worst outfit he has ever had to wear.

His only consolation is that he isn’t dealing with horrible outfits alone.

He looks around, ignoring the queue of children and parents, the former in their holiday best, and gazes at the occupant of the large red chair in front of him. Aziraphale, in a white wig and beard, looks rather miserable. Oh, he’s certainly trying to put on a jolly facade, and the kids don’t seem to notice anything amiss, but no one knows Aziraphale like Crowley does.

They hadn’t meant to run into each other. Crowley had been given an order to sow strife during the Christmas season, and he’d walked by the photography booth advertising Santa Claus, and thought, _well, why not?_ He just didn’t expect this uniform.

Aziraphale, meanwhile, is hear to spread Christmas cheer, because of course he is. He’s kind and sweet like that, and Crowley shouldn’t find it so endearing. But now, three days later, even Aziraphale is looking worn down by it all.

“I wanna have a turn!” a boy with pale blond hair cries, stomping his foot in frustration. His mother, eyes on her phone, ignores him, so he starts kicking at the stanchion nearest him.

“Oi,” Crowley calls. “Knock it off.”

The boy meets his gaze, scowls, and kicks it again.

Crowley bares his teeth at him and resolves to make sure his photo is the worst one he takes today. He turns back to Aziraphale, who’s cooing at a baby dressed like a Christmas tree as her parents transfer her into Aziraphale’s arms. Crowley smiles, and takes a bonus picture for the family, hoping his superiors in Hell aren’t watching.

The next few children aren’t too obnoxious. They’re shy but earnest, babbling to Aziraphale about what they want. And Aziraphale is kind and wonderful, if looking a bit tired. Crowley starts to believe they’ll both get through this day without much drama.

But then. The blond boy reaches the front of the queue, leaping up and down. “Santa!” he shrieks.

“Hey,” Crowley snaps, scowling, “be patient.”

The boy whirls to face him, eyeing him with more disdain than such a young person should be able to muster. “What kind of elf name is Anthony?” he asks, seeing his name tag.

Crowley cocks his head. “That’s my _name_!”

“It’s stupid.”

“It… what?” he asks, affronted. The gall!

The boy seems to be on another train of thought now. “If you’re really an elf”—his tone reveals how skeptical he is about that—“does that mean you’ve met Rudolph and the other reindeer?”

Crowley narrows his eyes. Three days of this has been enough to make him snap, apparently, because he says, “there’s no such thing as flying reindeer. And there’s certainly no such thing as reindeer with glowing red noses.”

The boy stares at him, mouth open in shock. “Yes, there are!”

Crowley lifts an eyebrow. “Yeah? How do you know? I’m the elf here, remember? Have _you_ been to the North Pole?”

The boy stammers, until Aziraphale speaks. “Your turn, dear boy.” He levels a withering glance at Crowley, who shuts up, feeling meek all of a sudden.

However, even that look from Aziraphale doesn’t stop Crowley from taking a photo that’s just slightly crooked, just slightly out of focus. Of course, once the boy hops off his lap, Aziraphale snaps his fingers and so corrects the image, but it was worth a try.

In the moments between the obnoxious boy leaving—Crowley “forgets” to give him a candy cane—Aziraphale meets his gaze.

“Be nice, Crowley,” he mouths.

“Demon,” he mouths back, and Aziraphale shakes his head, looking exasperated.

“Hello, dear!” Aziraphale greets the next child in the queue, a little girl who’s probably not quite three. She’s clutching at her stuffed dog, hiding behind her mother’s legs.

“Go on, love,” her mother coaxes. The girl hesitates, nervous tears filling her eyes. She fidgets, and without warning, Crowley feels a ridiculous urge to help.

Ugh, Aziraphale must be rubbing off on him.

“Hey,” Crowley says, kneeling next to her. “You know him, he’s Santa. He won’t bite.”

She starts to smile, but she still doesn’t move from behind her mother.

So Crowley smiles back. “Go on,” he continues. “Tell you what, let’s make a deal. If you do this, I’ll give you _two_ candy canes later.”

She buries her nose in the stuffed dog’s fur and giggles, then starts forward to climb onto Aziraphale’s lap.

“And what would you like for Christmas?” he asks.

Crowley doesn’t listen to her reply, struck dumb by the fond look Aziraphale gives him over her head.

Okay, so perhaps he isn’t doing a great job spreading much strife at the moment.


	21. Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale decides to knit Crowley a scarf. Does that make this literal fluff?

Aziraphale hasn’t been knitting long, only since the mid–19th century. Still, he enjoys it.

So when he thinks to give Crowley a gift for Christmas, it’s an easy decision to make something for him.

They don’t usually give each other gifts, and don’t really celebrate Christmas—feels odd, considering they actually met Jesus, and he wasn’t born in winter, anyway. Still, it’s a season of joy and family, but also distress and strife, so both he and Crowley enjoy it.

One day, sitting in St. James Park, Aziraphale notices Crowley picking at a loosening string on his rather threadbare gray scarf. And Aziraphale knows what he’s going to do.

So when he’s parted ways with Crowley, after several goodbye kisses, he goes to the shops rather than straight home. There, he spends a while agonizing over what color of yarn to use. On one hand, he wants to give Crowley an additional splash of color, but on the other, knows that Crowley has a specific look he’s quite dedicated to. It wouldn’t do to go upsetting that, even if he knows Crowley would wear the scarf nevertheless.

Eventually, he settles on the softest yarn, in a deep red that fades to black and back again, and leaves with a smile on his face.

It’s only a few days until Christmas, so he gets to work right away. He has to start over twice, being a bit out of practice. He hasn’t had much occasion to knit the last decade, being preoccupied with raising Warlock and averting Armageddon. But he gets there in the end, and spends an hour or so each day making excellent progress.

As he works, he reflects on how his relationship with Crowley has changed lately. He’d spent several centuries wondering when might be the best time to admit how he feels, but in the end, there had been no admission. Crowley had skipped right over that conversation in favor of pressing Aziraphale against the Bentley outside the Ritz and kissing him like—well, like they now can look forward to the rest of their lives, together.

These days, months on, Aziraphale wants to make that confession. Perhaps. Or perhaps he’ll lose his nerve and say nothing. Perhaps the scarf can be a metaphor.

— — —

On Christmas Day, Aziraphale makes tea for when Crowley wakes, then climbs back into bed next to him, stroking his hair.

Crowley wakes a few minutes later with a soft sigh, rolling into Aziraphale’s side and nuzzling against him. “Morning, Angel,” he murmurs.

“Good morning, my dear. Happy Christmas.” Aziraphale smiles down at him.

“Oh, is that today?”

“Yes,” he says, chuckling at the husky drowsiness in Crowley’s voice.

“Well, happy Christmas, then.” Crowley sits up, yawning and brushing his unruly hair out of his face.

And oh, how Aziraphale loves him.

He leans forward and kisses him quickly. Crowley makes a displeased noise when he pulls back so soon, then slumps back onto the pillow. “Come back,” he whines, a hand tugging at Aziraphale’s arm.

“In a moment,” Aziraphale says. “First, I have something for you.”

“Yeah?” Crowley tilts his head, quizzical. “What is it?”

Aziraphale doesn’t reply beyond getting up, retrieving the wrapped scarf, and returning. He hands Crowley the still-hot tea, and the gift.

Crowley sits up, pressing against Aziraphale’s side. He takes a sip, then hands the tea back over so he can unwrap the present, and Aziraphale is glad he has something to do with his hands so he doesn’t tear the paper off, suddenly anxious to see Crowley’s reaction.

The paper falls away to reveal the scarf, and Crowley’s eyes widen. “Angel…”

“Do you like it?”

Crowley’s thumbs stroke over the yarn. “I do, yeah. Did… did you make this?”

Aziraphale nods, self-conscious. “I did. There’s a few mistakes, but I was running out of time before today to get it done, and they’re small flaws. But if you don’t like it, I can—”

“I do, I just said.” Crowley smiles. “You didn’t have to do this, y’know.” Still, he slings it on, and it falls across his bare chest. Aziraphale averts his eyes. _Don’t get distracted_ , he scolds himself.

“I wanted to,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley fidgets with the ends of the scarf, looking preoccupied. He opens his mouth, closes it again, then blurts, “Hang on.”

He leaps out of bed, leaves the room, then returns moments later with something hidden behind his back. “Okay. So. I was going to give you these, but I couldn’t figure out the thumbs. They kept turning out all wonky and stupid, but… maybe you could talk me through it? They’re yours, either way.”

He clambers back into bed and holds out a pair of knitted mittens, in alternating stripes of light blue and cream.

Aziraphale gapes. “You know how to knit?”

Crowley nods, cheeks turning pink. “Yeah.”

“When did you learn that?” The idea of Crowley, black leather and rock music Crowley, learning to knit is so very endearing. And yet it makes sense—Crowley likes order, often needs something to do with his hands to calm himself down.

And again Aziraphale thinks it, how he loves him.

Crowley shrugs. “In the late ’60s. Needed a hobby.” He doesn’t mention the reason, but Aziraphale understands, recognizes the significant timing. He remembers sitting in the Bentley, listening to Crowley telling him he’d take him anywhere, and rejecting him. They didn’t speak for years after that.

Now, he lifts his gaze from the mittens to Crowley’s familiar, beloved face. “They’re wonderful,” he says. “Thank you.”

He takes them, feels their softness. The thumbs are a bit lopsided, but he thinks he knows how to fix them. Though perhaps he’ll leave them as they are, dear creations made by the being he loves so much.

“What prompted you to make these?”

Crowley shrugs again. “Dunno. Just… wanted to. Must be the same reason you decided to make this, yeah?” He flicks the scarf. “Besides, isn’t that a thing people do? Make things to show people how much they love each other?”

Aziraphale freezes, one mitten halfway on. He replays Crowley’s last few words several times, stunned by how casual they are.

“You love me?” he breathes.

Crowley lifts an eyebrow at him. “Yeah? Thought that was obvious.”

“It… well…” Aziraphale swallows. “I knew you were… fond of me, but…” He trails off, then laughs suddenly. “Darling, you’re going to think me a fool.”

Crowley smiles, taking Aziraphale’s hands and guiding them into the mittens. “Why?”

“I’ve spent ages trying to decide how to tell you I love you. And you just… say it, like it’s one of the easiest things in the world.”

“Well, saying it _is_ easy,” Crowley says, “because loving you is easy.”

Aziraphale blinks hard, feeling tears starting in his eyes. Crowley’s right, and now, the words come as if they’ve been waiting all this time, eagerly, to be spoken. “I love you, Crowley.”

Crowley beams at him, and the look is so tender that Aziraphale can’t resist wrapping his fingers around the scarf and pulling him in for a kiss.


	22. Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley makes hot cocoa for Aziraphale. Well, he tries.

Crowley never cooks. Or bakes. Or anything. The closest he’s ever come to making anything edible is preparing coffee or tea, and much of the time, he does that by miracling it.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, has found in recent years that he likes to cook and bake. Ever since they moved to the South Downs, especially, he’s been enamored by preparing food the human way. He’s gotten them both addicted to Bake Off, and Crowley is only grateful Aziraphale is learning how to make some of the things from that show, otherwise they’d both pine away for custard tarts and caramel and pies.

And then, one day, Crowley is struck with sudden guilt. He’s sitting at the island in their cozy kitchen, watching Aziraphale humming and stirring a pot of stew. Crowley gazes at him, and without warning, scolds himself.

 _You could be doing more for him_ , he thinks. _Don’t be so useless. Help out around here_.

“Want me to help out, Angel?” he asks.

Aziraphale glances at him, a fond smile on his face. “I’m fine, dear, but thank you.”

Crowley sits back, stymied. Well, that won’t do. He needs to contribute.

More than that, he needs to plan how exactly he’s going to do that. He knows he wants to make something Aziraphale likes; Aziraphale is always so considerate of Crowley’s tastes, after all.

He settles rather quickly on cocoa, because Aziraphale loves cocoa, and the weather has been so cold lately, and Aziraphale deserves to be warm all the time.

So that evening, after the stew has been eaten and the dishes have been washed, and after Aziraphale has curled up on the couch with a book, Crowley slinks back into the kitchen. He’s armed with only a recipe on his phone and a sense of determination, but he hopes they will be enough.

He manages to locate the right measuring tools, and combining the cocoa and sugar goes well enough (the powder dusting the counter afterwards notwithstanding). But when heating the milk, things begin to go wrong.

“Stop it,” he hisses at it. It’s bubbling and turning a strange consistency, and he has no idea why. It doesn’t smell particularly appetizing anymore, either. He stirs it angrily for a minute, then wonders if maybe he should have added the cocoa and sugar by now. So he does.

“No, please,” he begs a minute later, still stirring with increasing urgency. “You fucking stupid cocoa...”

It’s a mess, it’s ruined, there is no way this is how it’s supposed to look. Cocoa is smooth and creamy, not this curdled, gloppy pile of awfulness. But maybe it has to be stirred beyond this point?

“Dammit,” he growls. Nothing is changing. If anything, the edges are blackening.

“Crowley?” comes Aziraphale’s voice. “What are you doing?”

Startled, Crowley lifts the skillet off the stove and tries to... well, he doesn’t know what he’s trying to accomplish, actually. Hide it behind his back? Whatever the case, he ends up splattering it all over the floor and countertop.

“Shit,” he whispers.

“Are you all right?” Aziraphale steps around the island to his side. “What are... were you making?”

Crowley hangs his head, embarrassed. “Was trying to make you hot cocoa,” he mumbles.

“Oh.” It’s a soft noise, amused but gentle. “Why?”

“Wanted to,” he says with a shrug. “You do so much for me...”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs. He steps over a puddle of the failed cocoa and touches Crowley’s arm. “You say that as if you do nothing for me. You tend the garden, and help with getting the shopping, and drive us to the seaside sometimes. But more than that”—his hands move to Crowley’s hips—“I don’t need you to _do_ anything for me, my dear.”

“But—”

“I only want you here, with me.”

Crowley leans in. “And if I _want_ to do something for you now and then?”

Aziraphale smiles. “You can, if you want. But don’t feel that you must do things for me to make me love you. Because I love you no matter what.”

He kisses Crowley then, fingers brushing through the waves of his shoulder-length hair. When he breaks the kiss, Crowley rests their foreheads together.

“Would you like me to help?” Aziraphale asks.

“Yeah,” Crowley says, more imploring than he intends to be. “I dunno what I’m doing,” he adds, with a sheepish smile.

Aziraphale snaps his fingers, and the cocoa spill vanishes—it’s the one task he never wants to do human-style.

Together, they make a new batch of cocoa, giggling and kissing as they do so. Crowley manages not to obliterate the milk this time, and Aziraphale adds things to their mugs that Crowley hadn’t thought of, cinnamon and vanilla in Crowley’s, peppermint in his own, then adding whipped cream to both.

It’s more fun this way, Crowley realizes, cooking with someone else. He decides he’ll help Aziraphale more often, let cooking become a team effort. A new aspect of the Arrangement.

With their mugs, they settle onto the couch, pressed together under a blanket. Aziraphale puts a holiday episode of Bake Off on, and presses a kiss to Crowley’s jaw.

Crowley smiles, and shifts closer, and feels warm.


	23. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. What if Aziraphale hadn't been able to get out of Heaven after being discorporated in the bookshop?

The fire roars, consuming the bookshelves and the rugs and the books, Aziraphale’s beloved books. Crowley sees how the pages curl and blacken, hears the creaking of the wooden beams of the building around him, and for perhaps the first time in his life, understands what the humans mean by the word “heartbreak.”

“Bastards!” he screams, tears running down his face. “All of you!”

He cradles his head in his hands. “Aziraphale,” he sobs, but there is no reply.

His departure is a blur. He remembers how the flames licked at his body (as if welcoming an old friend), remembers dropping his sunglasses on the ground (let people see his eyes and condemn him; he doesn’t care now), remembers picking up the nearest book (Aziraphale loves... loved books).

In the pub, he traces his fingers over the cover. One last thing left of Aziraphale. Such a small thing. He doesn’t even recall ever seeing this book before, so he has no memories of the angel to associate with it.

He’s worthless, as ever.

He senses the roiling of the world around him, the seams tearing apart. The end will come soon, and part of him realizes he should do something to try to stop it. A more dominant part, the part soaked in grief and smelling of smoke, tells him to stay put. He’s worthless, and it’s hopeless.

A group of men walk by, muttering about the bizarre happenings. Then, a mother and her child of about six years old walk by.

“Mummy, what’s ‘apocalypse’ mean?” the child asks. Her hair is in a neat plait down her back, and she has dimples.

Crowley stares at her, the question echoing through him, piercing through the anguish with the force and intensity of a laser.

A child her age should not have to know the meaning of that word.

Aziraphale would never permit it.

The door swings shut on the mother and daughter, and Crowley stands.

If he is to get to Tadfield in time, he needs to move now.

— — —

Crowley loses the Bentley next, watches it explode—the second thing he loves, gone up in flames, irretrievable.

Crying would almost be a relief, he thinks, as he slumps to his knees and stares. Screaming, sobbing, something more than this terrible numbness that has set in.

Then, a bike bell chimes, and he turns.

Ah, ha.

Antichrist. A good distraction right now.

Somehow, Crowley stands. Perhaps it’s a minor miracle, or perhaps it’s the strength of someone with nothing more to lose.

— — —

The ragtag bunch of frankly odd children dispatch the Horsemen. Rather well done, really. If Crowley could feel at the moment, he’d be impressed.

Book Girl shows up, a geeky mess of a man in tow. Something about missiles? If Crowley could feel at the moment, he’d be a bit baffled.

“You stole my book!”

Crowley glances down at it, clenched in his hand. A piece of Aziraphale that somehow seems foreign to him as being loved had felt when he’d awoken with dark wings and hellish eyes. He returns the book to her. No wonder it didn’t feel like Aziraphale’s; it wasn’t.

Obtaining a memento—he even failed at that.

Crowley watches Gabriel and Beelzebub argue, watches the child—Adam, Antichrist, so, so small with so, so much potential—balk at the role he’s been assigned. His demeanor touches something in Crowley, and compels him to try. It’s what Aziraphale would want, and besides, when it comes right down to it, Crowley’s never been keen on hurting kids.

So he tries to help. To thwart.

But the tarmac is unforgiving when he collapses on it. The terrible, awesome, overwhelming force of Satan himself washes over him. He feels as if he’s dying, and the only thing keeping him from lying down and letting it happen is Adam and Aziraphale. One, a would-be monster. The other, a ghost.

And so Crowley meets Adam’s confused, frightened gaze, and forces himself to his feet.

He stops time.

He speaks to Adam, pleads with him to do what he thinks is best, and starts time again. It’s all touch-and-go after that, but somehow, somehow, they come out the other side. Alive. Survivors of an almost-ending.

Adam Young chooses his real father. He chooses humans. He chooses hope over destruction.

Crowley only stays long enough to feel the ripple that spreads from beneath Adam’s feet and extends across the world. The end is averted, it means, and all the gathered angels and demons he can sense nearby must know it now too.

He needs to get out of here. Beelzebub saw him with Adam, and surely will figure out what his hand in it was. Or not, but it doesn’t much matter. Crowley disobeyed, and that’s the important part. He needs to leave, before retribution falls upon him.

Adam Young doesn’t notice him striding away, spreading his wings, and taking to the air. Adam Young has eyes only for his father, in the puttering little car, coming for his son.

— — —

Crowley does not depart from the planet right away. He makes a pit stop in his flat, one intense driving need nagging at him. He locates the tartan thermos and picks it up. A memento, a proper one this time, though his associated memory is far from nice.

Still, he holds this in his hands and thinks of Aziraphale, and that is good enough for him.

It’s empty now, of course. He takes off again, leaving its contents still spilled across the floor. Empty, he muses, is probably for the best. There’s room inside now to put his pain, his grief, his love, so they might not haunt him anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am mean. And yes, this has nothing to do with Christmas/winter/holidays, but this is the story I came up with. Don’t worry though, this story isn’t over! I’ll be adding on, along with some scenes from Aziraphale’s point of view, in a separate fic later, once the advent is over. And I promise it won’t have a sad ending, because I don’t roll with sad endings.


	24. Holiday Card

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mortal AU. In 1939, Anthony Crowley begins corresponding with a soldier abroad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic apparently exists in a universe where homophobia doesn't exist, because I'm sure the 1940s censors for military letters in our universe would have raised their eyebrows at some of the sentiments that Crowley and Az are about to admit to each other, but I've made that a nonissue here. Because homophobia can fight me, and I'm not gonna write _realism_ in a self-indulgent Christmas fic, am I?

September 1939  
To Lieutenant Fell,  
Hi. Sorry, I dunno how to start one of these. What do you say to a complete stranger who’s at war in another country?  
I guess I should start by telling you something about myself. I’m a gardener, but people are having less use for that kind of thing these days, with the war on and all. Trying to find other work in London at the moment.  
What about you? I mean, if you weren’t out there, what would you be doing?  
Regards,  
A. Crowley

— — —

October 1939  
Dear Mr. Crowley,  
Thank you very much for your letter. Hearing from home, even from a stranger, is wonderful. I know many people often volunteer to write letters to those deployed abroad, and I am glad you have done so.  
I am sorry that the war has damaged your professional prospects. I wish you all the best in your job-seeking efforts.  
Before I was sent away, I ran a bookshop in Soho. I don’t know how much you know about the area. Are you from London?  
Sincerely,  
Lieutenant A. Fell

— — —

November 1939  
To Lieutenant Fell,  
Yes, born and raised in London. I’m mostly around Mayfair these days. What about you? Where are you from?  
Sorry, I dunno how much personal stuff I’m allowed to ask you. I know you probably can’t say where you are, what you’re up to, and all that.  
From,  
A. Crowley

— — —

November 1939  
Dear Mr. Crowley,  
I’m a Londoner as well. Funny to think, isn’t it? We could have met and never known it. Though I myself haven’t spent much time in Mayfair.  
I do miss London, the shops and the history and the museums. Out here is so unfamiliar to me.  
But enough of that. How has it been finding a job?  
Regards,  
A. Fell

— — —

December 1939  
To A. Fell,  
You might find London different than when you left it. Everything’s about the war now, not so much about shopping and museums. I am sorry you’re missing home, though.  
No luck yet on the job front. Honestly, I don’t know what I’m going to do.  
Hell, we’re both a mess aren’t we?  
— A. Crowley

— — —

January 1940  
Dear Mr. Crowley,  
This might be a ridiculous proposal, considering we know so little about one another, but I wonder if you have an interest in taking care of my bookshop? I’ve had to close it, but you could run things while I’m abroad.  
Your letters have been a great comfort to me these past few months, and I wish to help you however I can.  
From your friend,  
A. Fell

— — —

January 1940  
To A,  
Are you in earnest? You’d really trust me with your shop? You talk about it all the time, so I just want to make sure you know what you’re doing.  
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not opposed to this, but… are you really sure?  
— Crowley

— — —

February 1940  
To Crowley,  
I am in earnest, my dear. Though I suppose if we’re going to be both exchanging letters and joining in a business venture together, we should know each other’s full names, shouldn’t we?  
Your friend, Azariah

— — —

— — —

August 1940  
Aza,  
I’ve done a thing, dunno if you’re going to like it, but I’ve done it anyway. But since so many people don’t have money right now, I decided to use one section of the bookshop as a library. That way, they still can read, but they don’t have to pay. If people want to buy any other books, they can, and we’re still donating half the profit to the war effort. Good cause, as you say, and all. Hope that’s an okay thing.  
I hope you’re well. Been a few weeks longer than usual since your last letter, but the V-mail office can’t tell me anything. Write back soon.  
—Anthony

— — —

September 1940  
Anthony,  
I’m terribly sorry. There’s been nearly no time to write, as we’ve been moving around to new places. I wish I hadn’t made you worried, but know that I have thought of you every day. The situation here is tenuous, but I am fine, I promise. I hope this letter reaches you quickly.  
I think the idea of a library section of the shop is wonderful. We agreed upon the donation aspect of our sales to help the war, but we should help the citizens as well. Thank you for all this, by the way. Knowing you are there, in London, among the books, gives me such comfort. You give me such comfort.  
Is it strange to say that I miss you? Can a person miss someone they’ve never met? Well, it seems I can.  
—Aza

— — —

September 1940  
Aza,  
I’ve started this letter probably half a dozen times. I’m so glad you’re all right. I’ll admit, I wasn’t sure what I’d do if I found out you…  
Anyway, the bookshop is going well. I’ve settled in to the flat above it well enough, and I promise I won’t disturb your things. Well, not too much.  
In other news, the German planes are starting to get ambitious, but it’s London. I’ll be fine here.  
Stay safe, yeah? Because, as sad as this might be considering we’re never met, you’re my best friend. I want you to be safe, and I want you to come ~~home~~ back.  
Sorry, I’ve got hold of some wine, for once, and I’m being ridiculous. Remind me not to write you when I’m tipsy.  
Yours,  
Anthony

— — —

November 1940  
My dear Anthony,  
I wish this war wasn’t happening. I wish I could be home. It’s all so useless, and foolish, and the violence… There’s so much cruelty in the world. Sorry, this hardly a good way to start a letter, but I lost a friend yesterday, and I haven’t been able to stop weeping. And I miss you.  
Sometimes I find myself wishing you were here with me, but you don’t belong in a place like this, with your plants and your music… I imagine you sometimes, you know, in the bookshop, dancing to Billie Holiday. I don’t know if you can dance, or if you’ve listened to the record I suggested. But thinking of you like that, safe and happy, helps.  
It’s absurd, but I even imagined you dancing before I knew what you looked like. But I’m grateful you sent me your photo—did I ever thank you for that? I carry it with me wherever I go.  
I want to meet you in person, Anthony. You look so lovely in your portrait, and your eyes…  
I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say these things. But sometimes, some of the comments you make, you lead me to believe that perhaps you’re the same. Perhaps you feel the same way about me. Perhaps you want me the way I want you.  
Please tell me you do.  
Yours,  
Aza

— — —

January 1941  
Anthony,  
I’ve waited as long as I can bear. I was going to wait for you to write back, but it’s been two months.  
Please forgive me for my last letter. I was not in a good place, and I’ll admit some of the other soldiers and I had been imbibing earlier in the evening. ~~Not to say I didn’t mean~~  
Ignore what I said in that letter. It was too much, and I only hope it hasn’t damaged our friendship irreparably. Please, my dear friend, I pray this will not affect us too much. Write me back soon, if you desire. If you do not, I will of course understand.  
—Azariah

— — —

January 1941  
Anthony,  
I have never wished for better communication with home than I do now. We only just got a real update about England, and that London is being bombed so terribly. Please, please tell me you’re all right, that you’re safe. If you need to close the bookshop and get out of the city, I’ll understand. Please keep yourself safe.  
And do not worry for my sake, if you think of me. I am, for the moment, well and safe, only worried for you.  
Write to me when you can ~~my dear~~.  
—Azariah

— — —

February 1941  
Aza,  
I’m so sorry. You’re probably losing your mind over there. The last few months have been mad, absolutely mad. The Germans bombed the shit out of London every bloody day for a while there, and it’s been awful, Aza. You’d hate it, so I won’t go into details. Besides, you’re probably hearing enough awful news about here and everywhere.  
I do have something I’ve got to tell you, but I don’t know how. Suppose I’ll just say it—the bookshop got hit. Not directly, but one of the walls is pretty much gone. Broke my leg, too, which was shit.  
So that’s been my life lately. Been dealing with what to do with the bookshop, but some of the usuals helped board it up. And I’m wearing a cast now, which is rubbish. But I’m okay, and the shop’s okay. Well, mostly. So don’t worry, Aza.  
—Anthony  
P.S. Shit shit shit. I only just got your last three letters today. Shit. Bloody hell, Aza, I didn’t realize… I’m so sorry. It’s okay, I promise. Shit. The V-mail office is going to get an earful tomorrow. I’m so, so sorry. I know you were trying not to show it really, but I can tell you’ve been scared, but I’m fine, really.  
And… about what you said, about how you feel about me. Yeah. Same, to you, that is. Ugh, I should just start this letter over, shouldn’t I? Make it more coherent. But, you know, every bloody thing is rationed, even paper, and I have a feeling you’d kill me if I used a page from a book to write a letter on. But… yeah. Aza, I feel the same way. I want you here, I want you home, I want you.  
So stop worrying. I’m safe, here, and yours. Take care of yourself, and write me back soon, yeah?  
—Your Anthony

— — —

March 1941  
My dear Anthony,  
I’m embarrassed to say I utterly lost my composure when I received your letter, before I even opened it. The mere sight of your penmanship on the envelope, declaring that you are alive, was enough to send me to tears.  
You’re alive. Oh, my darling—  
May I call you that? You’ve said you feel the same way, but is that too much?  
Well. That aside, I’m so sorry for what happened to you, though I must confess myself relieved that your injuries weren’t worse. Still, I wish I could be by your side, to care for you while you recover.  
It pleases me to hear the bookshop is surviving, despite the damage. Though to be honest, if it had been entirely destroyed but you were unscathed, I would feel no grief for it. You have become far more important to me. The most important, in fact.  
Normally, I would not take such a risk in saying this so soon, but I am fighting a war I fear will only end in everyone’s deaths, and I have spent weeks wishing I had told you how I feel sooner. So I will tell you now, Anthony Crowley, I love you. So much. You are so loved, so adored, so cherished.  
Write to me soon, my dear, please.  
—Your Aza

— — —

March 1941  
Aza,  
Yes, you can call me darling. Bloody hell, yes. I didn’t realize I wanted... yes.  
God, Aza, I keep staring at your portrait and smiling at it. How pathetic is that? But I can’t stop myself. I imagine how your voice might sound, or how it might feel to hold you hand, or how it would be to be in the same room as you. Probably glorious.  
I love you too, you know. And bloody hell, it’s easy to just say that kind of thing in writing. I’m rubbish at having these sort of conversations out loud. Not that I’m, you know, telling anyone else this kind of thing. I love you, angel, just you.  
I know you can’t tell me where you are or what’s happening to you, but I hope you’re safe. I’m safe here, now the Germans have stopped bombing us. People are still coming to the bookshop, but so many people have moved. I hope I don’t have to. I’m afraid of losing contact with you, I won’t lie. Anyway, I’m being so sentimental. Maybe I need to go yell at some plants.  
Oh, did I mention? I’ve got plants again, just two little ferns, but still. It’s nice to see something growing around here. You’d love them.  
Customer, hang on. I’ll finish this later.  
It’s later. I can’t think of anything else to say, actually, except that I love you. I love you. I love you.  
Write soon, Aza.  
—Your Anthony

— — —

— — —

The letters continue, as often as they can. They don’t arrive as frequently as Crowley wants, but each one is placed into a box, removed, reread, replaced, repeat. His favorite reading material in a building full of books.

Crowley tells Aza about the bookshop’s wall getting repaired—well, as best it can, so it keeps in the heat of the fireplace—and about getting more new plants at last and about the state of London politics and the royal family and how the city looks through the changing seasons. He knows better than to talk much about the rest of the war, not only because he isn’t sure how much Aza knows, or how much he would want to hear. He surely would prefer the good news.

Aza talks about long days of travel, and distant gunfire, and seeing bombers fly overhead. But he also talks about the stray dog he sees reunite with a child taken to safety by American troops. He describes sunsets in Europe, and the games the soldiers invent in the evenings. Crowley can sense his fear and stress, and he aches to be with him, to hold him.

They both talk about their favorite music, what they want to do the day the war ends, what they’ll drink on the next New Year’s.

And slowly, the seasons pass. Crowley grows almost accustomed to the distance, to the ache of want that has by now settled into his very soul. Sometimes he thinks this is how it will always be—Aza there, him here, both of them loving but apart. He is nearly content sometimes, because he has never felt anything like this before, and it’s wonderful. He doesn’t want to stop feeling this warmth and affection, and he almost fears the situation changing, lest it change his feelings. What if meeting Azariah, truly being around him, changes how he feels? This is safe—not physically, since Aza is in the middle of a war zone, but emotionally. Less risk and all.

But other times, when Crowley lies awake in the dark, he yearns. He longs to reach out and have someone—have Azariah—reach back.

At last, the war ends in Europe. The next morning, Crowley wakes and half-expects to find Aza beside him. But of course, he is alone, and so he sits down at the desk in the bookshop and writes a letter.

He says many things, describing the celebration in the city that is still going on, but mostly what he says is that he wants Aza home. He signs the note with his usual “love, Anthony” and takes it to the V-mail office. Last he knew, Aza was somewhere in Europe, but he’s not sure where. France, maybe, or Italy. Crowley hopes it’s France, because that’s so near. Perhaps he’ll be able to come home soon.

Weeks pass, and there is no reply. This is not unusual, and Crowley doesn’t get really worried until it’s been six weeks.

After eight weeks, he starts asking.

He begins at the V-mail office, then at any army place he can find. No one has answers for him, even when he tells them Aza’s rank and regiment. Or, if they do have answers, they aren’t willing to share.

Two more months pass after that, and Crowley sends a dozen letters.

“Is the mail service just incompetent?!”

“At least tell me where you are, even if you can’t come home yet.”

“Please be all right. Even if you’ve decided you don’t want me, just tell me you made it through this war. You never have to hear from me after that.”

“Angel, please.”

One night in September, he lies in bed, curled up and weeping, and so afraid. The next morning after only a few hours of sleep, he gets up, eyes bloodshot and hair a mess. He swipes a hand across his eyes and resolves not to cry again about this. He can’t fall to pieces; he has a bookshop to run and plants to care for and plenty of other things he can find to do. This city has seen its people through a war—surely there are ways to occupy himself in the aftermath.

Aza might never come home, but it’s not as if he ever _was_ home, right? Crowley barely knew him, really, never saw him in person. Really, he has no right to miss or mourn someone he’s never been with. The correspondence of the past few years have been a pleasant diversion, but it’s time to move on.

Crowley doesn’t send the letter he drafted the evening previous, only slips it into the box with the other letters. This one is brief.

September 1945  
Aza,  
Come home. I love you. I need you, angel.  
Yours forever, Anthony

— — —

By December, Crowley is beginning to seriously consider selling the bookshop. The only problem is that it was never his to begin with, and he knows the previous owner would never have parted with it willingly. Perhaps he can hire someone to manage it, move to the countryside, and start a plant nursery instead. Staying here with the books and memories is becoming too much.

One day, he’s in the middle of Borough Market, having wandered the city most of the day, as has become his habit since the war ended. He stands in front of a stall selling the most delicious-looking cheeses when he sees a soldier and stops dead.

 _It’s not him_ , he tells himself. _You know it isn’t. He’s gone._

This soldier has darker hair than he thought at first, a soft blond a few shades darker than the near-white Aza had. He’s taller than Crowley imagined Aza to be, and his face is too angular, skin tone a shade darker. Nevertheless, the sight of that uniform is enough to nearly stop Crowley’s heart.

He shakes himself, turns on his heel, and leaves without buying anything.

 _He’s gone_ , he thinks again. _Get over it_.

— — —

That night, though, reminders of Aza seem insistent on appearing. A book on the shelf that Aza had raved about, a song Aza had loved playing on the gramophone, a person entering the shop with a smile like what Aza might have had. By the time he closes the shop, Crowley is so unsteady he almost spills the water for his tea over the counter. He manages to pour enough into his cup, though, and he sits heavily at the desk with it.

In the top drawer lies a framed photograph—the portrait Aza sent so long ago, early in their correspondence. Crowley pulls it out and gazes at it.

“Dammit,” he mutters, and locates a sheet of paper. One more, then, for old time’s sake. One more letter, and then no more, ever again. It’s only because Christmas is tomorrow.

He writes “Dear Aza, Merry Christmas,” then pauses, filled with sudden doubt. What can he say that he hasn’t said before?

He never finds out what he might have written, though, because at that moment, there’s a knock on the bookshop door.

“We’re closed!” he calls, rolling his eyes. Can’t they read the sign? Honestly.

The person knocks again, an insistent and rapid pounding, and Crowley grits his teeth and stands. He stalks toward the front of the shop, and opens his mouth to scold the too-determined customer, whoever they are.

“Anthony?” a voice calls out first, muffled through the closed door, but audible.

Anthony can see him now, though the window, and everything stops. This cannot be possible, this must be a dream, or maybe he’s finally lost his mind, because—

Because that cannot be Azariah Fell.

Aza spots him through the glass, and his face undergoes a transformation. It goes from nervous, to shocked, to wondering, to hopeful. Crowley stares back, amazed, because this isn’t a dream after all. He could never dream what Aza’s expressions look like in real life, because he’s only ever seen one, in the photograph.

He opens the door, fumbling with the deadbolt, and steps out into the cold December air.

Aza stands on the pavement in his uniform, a bag and discarded hat at his feet. He looks like his picture, only older and more tired. His hair is the same shade, that pale blond, and his eyes are a startling, wonderful blue. In the light of the streetlamps, he looks otherworldly, angelic.

But somehow, he is alive. He is real.

He doesn’t even appear to be injured; he’s whole and unscarred, at least on his face. He has no crutch, no debilitating wound. Crowley, back when he had harbored some hope, had still imagined broken bones or scars or horrific, visible trauma. He hadn’t imagined they might be lucky like this.

Neither man speaks, staring at each other. Finally, Crowley closes the distance between them, until the clouds of their breath mingle. It’s begun to snow, he realizes, when he sees flakes clinging to Aza’s hair.

“Azariah?” he whispers.

Aza smiles, and that’s all the encouragement Crowley needs to move. He falls into Aza, clinging to him, pulling him close. He wraps his arms around him and soaks in the feeling of holding him. He’s safe-feeling, sturdy, alive, here.

He’s here.

“Anthony,” Aza says, with a smile in his voice. Crowley grins. He usually goes by his surname, but Aza has always called him by his Christian name. Now, Crowley realizes why he’s allowed it for so long: the sound of it in Aza’s voice, soft and tender, shifts something fundamental inside him. It is as if his heart has abandoned his chest and has taken up residence in this man.

“Anthony,” Aza repeats, “you’re really here.”

Crowley laughs into the crook of Aza’s neck. “ _I’m_ here? Of course I am. You’re the one who—” But the words are choked off as the pain and grief crash back in. He blinks hard.

“Oh,” is all Aza says. His grip tightens.

Crowley tries again. “I thought…” He can’t finish that sentence either, beyond making a small involuntary noise.

“Oh, my dear. My darling.” Aza’s fingers are in his hair, a touch Crowley didn’t know he craved until this instant.

He makes another noise, then sighs, giving up on speaking about this for a moment. “Let’s go inside.”

They do, separating only reluctantly to do so. Crowley locks the door behind them, and turns to gaze at Aza as he looks around the shop.

“It looks... different,” Aza says. He runs his fingers along the nearest shelf, then along the spines of the books as if he’s greeting old friends. In a way, Crowley supposes, he is.

“Is it... do you like it?” Crowley watches him walk away, deeper into the shop. Aza pauses, looks back, and extends a hand toward him. Crowley joins him and intertwines their fingers. He immediately never wants to let go.

“I do like it,” Aza says. With his free hand, he touches the leaf of a fern. “It feels like home, but also as if you’ve made it a home too.” He squeezes Crowley’s hand, staring into his eyes. “Darling—”

“Where were you?” Crowley breathes. He ducks his head to stare at their hands, distracted by how treasured this makes him feel, but also trying to conceal the wetness in his eyes.

“Anthony—”

“I’ve had no word from you, Aza, since April. I wrote to you when the war ended, I... I searched for you. I’ve been mourning you.”

“Anthony.” The name comes out broken. “I am so sorry.”

He moves closer, and the two of them end up against a bookcase, Crowley’s back touching the shelves. Aza lets go of his hands in favor of his hips, and Crowley pushes away the memory of times he’s imagined this scenario in a rather different context.

“You thought I was dead,” Aza says. His lip trembles. “Oh, Anthony…”

“Sorry,” he says, not sure why he’s apologizing. He only knows he can’t bear the expression on Aza’s face.

Aza looks back up, suddenly fierce. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing at all. I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through.”

“Nothing compared to what you—”

“No.” Aza shakes his head. “We don’t need to compare. All that matters is that you’ve been in pain, and I’m the one who should apologize.”

“You already have, and it’s—”

“I’ve been in Berlin.”

Crowley stops, lips parting in shock. “Oh.” He remembers the news that’s been coming out of Germany, out of Berlin, and all the chaos and destruction there. “Oh, shit.”

Aza nods. “It’s been… well, hell. Anthony, you have no idea. I’m hardly surprised you’ve not received any of my letters; I think it’s a miracle any official messages got to England at all, let alone specific missives.”

“You’ve been writing?”

“Of course,” Aza says, cradling Crowley’s face. “As often as I could.”

A tear slides down Crowley’s face before he can blink it away. Aza wipes it away with his thumb, but the tender touch only makes another tear fall, and another, until Crowley is crying with abandon into Aza’s shoulder.

“Darling…” Aza holds him through it, rubbing his back and combing through his hair and whispering quiet words of comfort. Eventually, Crowley calms, and finds himself noticing how comfortable this feels, to be held by the man he loves. He can get used to this; he is used to this already; he will never be without this again if all goes well.

He lifts his head and meets Aza’s gaze. “Sorry.”

Aza’s cheeks are wet too. “Don’t be.”

And in the next breath, they are kissing. Crowley doesn’t know who leans forward first to capture the other’s lips, all he knows is the touch of Aza’s lips against his, Aza’s chest rising and falling against his, Aza’s hands clutching at him.

The detailed explanations of Aza’s life lately come much later. First, they waste no time; they’ve waited long enough to be together, after all. Crowley learns what it is to reach for Aza and to have Aza reach back. He learns how Aza feels in his embrace. He learns there are scars on Aza’s body, and kisses each one. He learns where to touch Aza to draw out gasps and sighs and cries. He learns, when their lips press together again and again, that he hasn’t moved on from wanting this at all during the past months, and neither has Aza.

After, they talk, giving accounts of what’s happened to them lately, discovering that conversing in person is as easy as writing was. Easier, perhaps, because now they can communicate in other ways, through touches and looks—and kisses.

 _Nice, this kissing lark_ , Crowley thinks at one point.

There are still many stories to be told, they both know, but they fall asleep together at around three in the morning. However, when they wake, they put off the storytelling again in favor of staying in bed, letting the soft morning light diffuse through the bedroom as they rediscover each other.

“I love you,” Crowley says, a while later, tracing lines across Aza’s chest.

Aza smiles, kissing Crowley’s knuckles. “And I love you. You know, I’ve dreamed of being with you for so long, it feels too good to be true now.”

“Believe it, angel,” he says, the old endearment falling from his lips as if he says it aloud all the time.

They both grin, and kiss for several minutes more before they manage to rouse themselves and prepare breakfast. It’s easy, falling into a routine they’ve never established but which comes naturally. Steeping the tea, cooking the food, setting the table, as if this is the thousandth time they’ve done it.

Once they’re finished, it’s easy too, to stand and gesture at Aza. “Come on,” Crowley says.

“What are we doing?” Aza asks, but he follows into the main space of the bookshop downstairs.

“I never told you,” Crowley says, moving to the gramophone. He flicks through the collection of records before he finds the right one.

“Told me what?”

“I listened to the record you suggested.”

Aza’s eyes are wide when Crowley peeks over his shoulder. “You did?”

“Yeah.”

“I… I’m sorry, my dear, I’m afraid I don’t know why you’re telling me this.”

“Because,” Crowley places the needle down on the edge of the record and turns, “it’s Christmas, and you’re home, and I want to dance with you.”

Aza stares at him, as if he’s a miracle. In the seconds between Crowley offering his hand and Aza taking it, Billie Holiday’s voice blooms from the gramophone.

And they dance, safe and happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did NOT mean for this to be so long, oops. I also didn't mean to have two angsty fics back to back, also oops. I promise, promise, promise that the next chapter with the extremely fluffy to make up for it!
> 
> ALSO, the last scene is a blatant homage to my dear friend elizabethelizabeth's fic [and what did I do? I thought about you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21375865) which you MUST read.


	25. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is bothering Crowley, but Aziraphale doesn't know what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it! And have a safe holiday season/end of the year to everyone! Thanks so much for reading this collection of fics so far; you've all been so sweet!
> 
> And now, I promised fluff after the last chapter's angst fest of a fic, so here you go.

Christmas morning dawns bright and cold, but inside the cottage on the South Downs, Crowley and Aziraphale are warm, lying in bed together.

They’d agreed not to exchange presents several decades ago, simply happy to be together. They don’t need to commemorate it with material gifts.

(That doesn’t stop Crowley from kissing Aziraphale very thoroughly every Christmas morning, but still.)

This Christmas morning, Crowley is laughing, hair splayed across the pillow, amber eyes sparkling. Aziraphale cannot help but kiss him, wanting to feel that laugh against his lips. Crowley wraps an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders, holding him close.

“Happy Christmas, my dear,” Aziraphale murmurs, pulling back a bit to speak.

Crowley meets his gaze, smiling. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He tries again, and says, “Get back here and let me snog you some more, angel.”

Aziraphale obeys, though he wonders if that was really what Crowley had first started to say.

— — —

They eventually leave bed—Crowley grumbling about it—and eat a late breakfast. Then, Aziraphale coaxes Crowley outside for a walk. The weather is cold but clear, and Aziraphale fancies getting outside. It’s rained most of last week, and he’s itching to get out of the house.

That, and Crowley in wellies is an endearing sight.

They walk hand in hand, chatting about nothing. Then, a chirping draws Aziraphale’s attention.

“Oh, Crowley, look!” He points. “Robins!”

“Where?”

“In that tree, see? A mated pair.”

The two birds are huddled together on a branch, peeping. Aziraphale beams at them, then glances at Crowley, who’s staring back at him.

“What?”

Crowley swallows. “Nothing.” He turns back to the birds, considers them, then snaps his fingers.

“What did you do?” Aziraphale stares at them, concerned. But Crowley squeezes his hand.

“Robins don’t mate for life, do they? Well, these two will stay together. Figured you’d like that.”

Aziraphale grins, and pulls Crowley in for a kiss. “You’re a romantic.”

Crowley scowls. “How dare you. I’m a demon!”

But he doesn’t drop Aziraphale’s hand.

— — —

Later, it starts to drizzle, and they dart inside, giggling and shaking raindrops from their hair. They snuggle under a blanket to get warm, watching Bake Off. But before the episode ends, they’re ignoring it in favor of continuing their celebrations from the morning, the blanket falling off in the midst of their rather enthusiastic _preening_.

“Did you really have to bring out your wings?” Aziraphale asks, redoing the buttons of his vest.

“I didn’t mean to,” Crowley fumes, blushing and wing-free again. He shrugs on his shirt, which Aziraphale feels rather rueful about, despite the cool weather.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, eyes landing on the television screen. “We didn’t see who was eliminated this week…”

“Are you really complaining?” Crowley’s cheeks are still pink, but he’s smirking now.

Aziraphale chuckles. “Well, no, I suppose not.”

He turns on the television, deciding to finish watching the episode later, and turns back to Crowley, who’s watching him again, with that look on his face. It’s an expression that blends thoughtfulness and longing and affection, and Aziraphale doesn’t know what it means.

“Hey, Angel?”

“Yes, dear?”

Crowley pauses, freezing in the midst of pulling on a sock. “Do… Do you want some tea?”

This time, Aziraphale is certain that isn’t what Crowley intended to say, but he doesn’t press him. “All right.”

They make their way into the kitchen, where orange and pink light seeps through the windows as the sun sets. Aziraphale for once, doesn’t feel like eating, still full from their lunch. So he puts the kettle on and pulls out a black tea laced with spices and cranberries. It is, after all, Christmas. They should have a festive drink. Crowley settles onto one of the barstools at their kitchen island and fiddles with his phone as Aziraphale makes the tea.

“Here you are, my dear,” Aziraphale says a few minutes later, handing off one cup with a kiss to Crowley’s forehead. He sets his own cup down and lights the trio of candles on the granite top, washing everything in flickering, golden light.

“So this has been a good Christmas,” he says, trying to draw Crowley back into a conversation. He’s not sure what to make of this sudden silence, and all the halting attempts at speech Crowley has made, more and more conspicuously, all day.

Crowley nods. “Yeah.” He glances up at Aziraphale, and it’s almost shy. He sips the tea and sighs. “This is good—new blend?”

Aziraphale grins. “Yes, I bought it in the village last week. I thought you might like it.”

“I do.” Crowley still sounds distracted, and he stares at Aziraphale more openly now. His eyes shine with affection, as if he can stare at Aziraphale for hours and never grow bored, as if Aziraphale is the most marvelous thing he’s ever beheld, as if he’s never seen Aziraphale properly before.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, unable to bear being unsure anymore, “is something wrong?”

“No,” Crowley says quickly. “I’m fine.”

Aziraphale swallows, hearing the fib but trusting that Crowley will tell him the truth when he’s ready. He nods and takes another sip of tea. The weight of Crowley’s gaze rests upon him, but he tries to ignore it, even when he hears Crowley take a deep breath.

“Angel, I want you to marry me,” Crowley blurts all in a rush.

Aziraphale’s head jerks up as shock reverberates through him. Crowley appears to take this as a bad sign, because he rushes on, stumbling over his words.

“I know marriage is a, y’know, religious thing, and that’s weird, since we’re... us, but... I dunno, I’ve been thinking about it as just a concept, aside from all the religion-y stuff, and...” His hands fiddle with the handle of his cup. “It means you get to spend the rest of your life with someone important to you, and... that’s... what I want. With you, so we’re clear.”

“Crowley—”

“I didn’t get a ring, or anything, but... I can, if you want. Or... maybe a book? You’ve always wanted that first edition of—”

“Crowley—”

“And don’t... you don’t have to respond. I don’t really know what I was thinking, saying that.” He ducks his head, and Aziraphale sees that his ears have gone bright red.

“Crowley!” He grabs Crowley’s hands, kisses his knuckles. “Slow down. You haven’t even given me a chance to speak.”

He bites his lip. “Yeah, my bad.”

Aziraphale smiles, but he is still baffled. “Darling... you may think me a fool for saying this, but I rather thought we already had... well, an understanding, if nothing else. After all, I’ve been referring to you as my spouse to everyone in the village ever since we moved here.”

Crowley stares at him, uncomprehending. “You... what.”

“Well, yes.”

“Really?”

“Of course.” Aziraphale lets go of one of his hands and cups the side of his face. “But if this is something you want, to be more officially married, I wouldn’t say no. I am horribly in love with you, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Aziraphale...” Crowley’s voice trembles. His amber eyes are wide and shine with unshed tears. “Sweetheart, do you mean it?”

And _oh_ , the unexpected endearment nearly makes Aziraphale discorporate then and there.

“Yes,” he says simply.

Crowley blinks, and two tears make twin streaks down his face. But a breath later, he grins, and launches himself into Aziraphale’s arms, nearly knocking over his barstool in his haste.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs. He knows he is smiling like a fool, but he can’t help himself. “Is _this_ what’s been bothering you all day?”

“What? No.” He shakes his head as best he can while keeping it pressed into Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Dunno what you’re talking about.”

Aziraphale chuckles. “You’re not as subtle as you think, my dear. I could tell something was on your mind. I had half a mind to just ask you what was wrong, but... I knew you’d tell me in time.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Crowley says. “I’m being stupid.”

“Oh hush, you’re being no such thing.” He kisses the top of Crowley’s head.

Crowley sits up. “I love you, Angel.”

Aziraphale pulls him close. “And I you, dearest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The use of the word "preening" as a euphemism is borrowed from the Instagram caption of the Dec 24th update of Whiteley Foster's "Prince of Omens" (read it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21848095/chapters/52140880)), which is a comic that has become my OBSESSION.


	26. Cider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale bumps into Crowley in a pub.

2005, Liverpool

Aziraphale is not sure what he’s doing here. He doesn’t usually frequent places such as dingy pubs, but then, work has brought him to stranger places than this. Besides, it would be good to blend in for a bit in this town.

“Wotcher, Angel,” a voice nearby says, and Aziraphale turns.

Along the bar sits Crowley, his hair shoulder-length and loose. His clothes are dark as usual, though Aziraphale doesn’t believe he’s seen that pair of skin-tight trousers before. Honestly, how does Crowley even breathe in them?

“Hello, Crowley,” he says, mustering a smile. They haven’t seen each other in some time, not since Aziraphale made what was perhaps the riskiest decision since giving away his sword—giving Crowley the thermos of holy water. Crowley has reached out a few times since then, but Aziraphale just... couldn’t speak to him. He cannot approve of a demon having holy water, cannot abide the thought that anything that might happen because of it will be Aziraphale’s fault. The Arrangement, therefore, has essentially been on hold.

“What brings you to this neck of the woods?” Crowley asks. “Thought you’d still be in London.”

“Work,” is Aziraphale’s brief answer. He turns back to his wine.

“Me, too,” Crowley says, apparently oblivious or dismissive of Aziraphale’s desire to not have a conversation. “Need to tempt the mayor, but I stopped here for a while. It’s a work in progress, and even demons need a break once in a while, yeah?”

Aziraphale makes a noncommittal noise, but Crowley doesn’t give up.

“Shall I get the next round?” he asks when Aziraphale drains his glass.

Aziraphale hesitates. He should refuse; accepting a drink would be far too close to fraternizing for comfort. But, if it will appease Crowley and make the evening go by faster...

“Thank you,” he says.

Within a minute, the bartender sets down a mug in front of him. Aziraphale frowns at it, and turns to Crowley, who has shifted into a closer seat. Only one empty spot separates them now, and Aziraphale tries not to be too conscious of how near he is after so long.

“What is this?” he asks.

“Their holiday drink, some kind of spiced cider or something,” Crowley says, lifting his own mug to his lips. Aziraphale looks away before he has to watch Crowley swallow. 

This pub is rather hot.

He takes a hasty sip, and the warmth of the drink settles over his tongue. “Oh, that’s delicious,” he says before he can think better of it.

Crowley smiles at him, and Aziraphale wishes it didn’t make him look so handsome.

“Welcome, everyone!” a voice calls over a sound system at the corner of the pub. “Thank you all for coming to our Christmas quiz night!”

Oh, good Lord.

The announcer continues explaining the rules, and another employee passes out papers and pencils. One set he gives to Crowley, who hesitates, eyes a bit wide.

“Er,” he says, not meeting Aziraphale’s gaze. “Shall we... team up then? For old time’s sake?”

Aziraphale looks at him. It’s an earnest question, and something about his downcast eyes but hopeful tone makes Aziraphale want to give in. Perhaps Crowley hasn’t used the holy water for evil. Perhaps he has hidden it away for emergencies, for insurance, like he said. Perhaps he has missed Aziraphale and simply wants to spend time with him tonight.

Perhaps Aziraphale has missed him too.

“For old time’s sake,” he echoes.

The pub quiz announcer rattles off the first question, and Aziraphale realizes this quiz is themed around the history of Christmas. He catches Crowley’s eye, and they grin at each other.

“Well, this should be a lark,” Crowley says.

“Almost unfair,” Aziraphale agrees, and he scrawls the answer on the paper.

The questions prove simplistic for two immortals who’ve spent most of their time in Europe and Asia. They get into a whispered argument about what to answer for Saint Nicholas’ birthplace (“it’s a pub quiz in Liverpool, Angel, they’re not going to expect anyone here to know the name Patara!”), and get a second mug of cider each.

Crowley is complaining under his breath about Aziraphale’s penmanship getting progressively worse when the announcer reads out the last question:

“During which war did a famous Christmas truce occur?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, smiling. “Simple. I was there that day.” He starts writing the answer, _First World War_.

“So was I,” Crowley murmurs.

“Were you?” Aziraphale frowns. “I thought you were asleep then.”

“Hard to sleep through a global conflict,” Crowley says around another sip of cider. “I was in the German trenches that Christmas.”

“I was with some British troops,” Aziraphale says. “What a coincidence. We might have almost bumped into each other. You know,” he continues as he hands the completed quiz and pencil back to the same employee, “I always have wondered who was responsible for that truce. Probably not Gabriel, but perhaps Uriel. Or, I suppose, it could have been the humans themselves. They aren’t always horrible to each other, even in war...” He shrugs and returns to this dangerously tasty cider. “I suppose it isn’t too important.”

A long silence passes before Crowley speaks. “Yeah, suppose it isn’t.”

They both finish their ciders while waiting for the quizzes to be marked. Aziraphale feels pleasantly fuzzy, and much more fond of this pub than he did earlier. Crowley is quiet, but when Aziraphale catches his eye and smiles, he returns it.

The microphone squeals when the announcer returns to the front. “And the winners are... Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley!”

The other patrons give a round of applause, which Crowley acknowledges with a small wave, and the announcer makes her way over to them. “Congratulations, gentlemen,” she says, handing them each a bottle of the same cider they’ve been drinking all night.

“Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale says, grinning. He hadn’t realized the cider was house made until he saw this label, how marvelous.

Crowley stands. “Well, I better be off.”

Aziraphale eyes him. He wonders what has changed since earlier; before, Crowley had been so eager to spend time with Aziraphale. Now, he’s taciturn and thoughtful, almost melancholy. Aziraphale doesn’t remember him being a sad drunk, but perhaps things have changed. If that’s the case, he probably should not leave him alone just yet, until he makes certain Crowley is all right.

“I’ll walk you out,” he says.

They settle their tabs and head out into the crisp night air. The moon is bright above them.

“I enjoyed myself,” Aziraphale hears himself say. “We should do this again. I’m here through the end of the week.”

Crowley grunts, which makes Aziraphale frown. “Is something wrong, my dear?” He pauses under a street light, which brings out the gold tones in Crowley’s hair.

“Nah, just...” Crowley shrugs. “I just wish you wouldn’t act out of pity. I shouldn’t have pressured you into doing that quiz with me, y’know? You clearly didn’t want to see me tonight. The Arrangement is over, it’s fine, you don’t have to feel bad for me.”

Aziraphale stares at him, thrown by this unexpected speech. “I’m not acting out of pity,” he says.

“Right.”

“I’m not,” he insists, stepping closer. “I... I have missed you, Crowley. It just took seeing you tonight to realize it.”

Crowley finally looks at him, lips parting in surprise. “You did?”

Aziraphale nods. “I did. I miss you whenever you aren’t around. When you were gone, at the end of last century, I missed you. I wish I had seen you during the first Great War. It would have been a great comfort then.”

Crowley bites his lip. “What?” Aziraphale asks.

“I saw you.”

“You what?”

“In the trenches.” Crowley shoves his hands in his pockets and shuffles his feet. “I caught a glimpse of you at one point. You looked exhausted, and stressed, and like you wanted to cry.”

“Probably true,” Aziraphale admits.

“So I did it. The truce.”

Aziraphale stiffens. “It was you?”

Crowley nods, still looking down. “I wanted to do something nice for you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Aziraphale steps close, touches Crowley’s shoulders.

“I... I figured you didn’t want to see me back then.”

A pang of sadness and guilt moves through Aziraphale. He’s been so afraid lately of what Crowley might do with the holy water that he’s forgotten they’re friends. He likes Crowley, more than anyone else in Heaven or on earth. Crowley is his best friend.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I wish I didn’t make you feel unwanted. I do want you. I shouldn’t have pushed you away back then, and... more recently. I... Might we be friends again?”

Crowley looks at him, eyes gleaming gold in the street light. “You mean that?”

“Yes, I do,” Aziraphale says, squeezing his shoulders. Crowley’s hand lifts and rests upon Aziraphale’s chest. The touch makes him shiver, makes him lean into it, makes him want more.

“No,” Crowley replies.

Aziraphale feels as if he’s falling then, hopeless and hurt. “Oh.”

He steps away, straightening his coat and tamping down the disappointment. “All right.”

“I want more,” Crowley continues, following. He stalks Aziraphale, who lets himself be pressed against a brick wall, just out of the circle of light from the streetlamp. “Don’t you?”

He sounds cocky but unsure at the same time. So Aziraphale tugs him close and kisses him.

Crowley’s lips are pliant and wanting, and they taste of cider. They part under Aziraphale’s, and their tongues intertwine. He gasps, or perhaps Crowley does, a sound that dissolves into a moan.

Crowley presses closer, clutching at Aziraphale with a desperation that’s unexpected but somehow tender. As if he has wanted this for years, and now that he has it, is determined to make it good for Aziraphale.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs. “We shouldn’t do this here.”

Crowley growls, nips at Aziraphale’s lower lip, then pulls back far enough to lock their gazes. “Then come back to my place,” he says. “I’ve got a little flat a ways down the road until this assignment is done. Come back there with me. Please, Angel.”

Aziraphale nods. “Yes, yes.”

Crowley grins. “Come on, then. Let’s see how much fun we can get up to, drunk on this cider.” He clinks the two bottles together and raises an eyebrow.

“Wily serpent,” Aziraphale says, as he falls into step beside him. “So I suppose the Arrangement is back on?”

“Hell yes.” Crowley raises his bottle aloft in triumph, and Aziraphale grins.


	27. Champagne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At a Christmas party in the midst of the Regency, Crowley and Aziraphale try to dance.

The Christmas party is in full swing by the time Aziraphale arrives. The main room beyond the hall is packed with people, all in their holiday finest. A piano is playing in the corner, tables of food and drink stand on either side of the room, and everywhere, people gossip.

“Oh, and did you hear about the eldest—”

“I thought the match would never—”

“He’s so—”

Aziraphale can’t breathe, which doesn’t make sense, considering he is a celestial being and therefore doesn’t need to breathe. But something about being in this room, packed to the walls with humans, with hardly an inch between them most of the time, is causing a strange reaction. He tries to navigate through it as best he can, but it’s just so crowded, he has to backtrack more than once around clusters of party-goers, sharing gossip and flirtations.

“Excuse me,” he says to a pair of giggling girls, who look far too young to be drinking the beverages in their hands. “If I could just get by...”

“That you, Aziraphale?”

He freezes, a thrill going through him. “Crowley,” he says, and looks over his shoulder with a grin.

It _is_ Crowley, quite striking in a dark dress and sunglasses. It would be a somber look, were it not for the emerald ribbon around the waist and the slightly scandalous line of the dress—just too fitted, more than is typical of this day and age in England. And of course, Crowley’s hair is lovely as ever, done up in an intricate bun with a few wispy curls escaping at the temples.

“I didn’t expect to see you, my dear,” Aziraphale says, more relaxed in this moment than he’s felt since arriving at this estate. It’s been too long, really, since they have spent time together. 

Crowley smirks at first, but then meets Aziraphale’s eyes. The smirk shifts to a frown. “Are you all right?”

“Me? Yes, of course. It’s ever so hot in here, though, isn’t it?”

Crowley considers him for a moment, then nods as if having come to a decision. “Meet me in the study. It’s down that hall over there.”

“Which door—?” Aziraphale starts to ask, but Crowley has already vanished back into the crowd.

Aziraphale sighs but does as he was told. It takes several minutes to escape the main foyer, but he does find the study. He sighs in relief as he steps inside. There’s a group of people playing a card game in one corner, and a couple chatting by the window, but other than that, it is quiet. And there are books, thank goodness. He feels calmer already, merely being in their midst.

Crowley appears at his side, holding a bottle of champagne and wearing a smug expression.

“Really?” Aziraphale asks in an exasperated voice. “You can’t just take the entire bottle.”

“Why not? Was just sitting out. Anyone could’ve snagged it.” Crowley pops the cork, then proceeds to the vacant chaise near the fireplace. “Besides, you look like you need something to settle your nerves.”

Aziraphale sits next to Crowley, who takes up most of the space by sprawling out. “I suppose so.”

Crowley takes a swig straight from the bottle and then fixes him with a penetrating look. “Sure you’re all right? You looked... stressed back there.”

Aziraphale takes the bottle and sips. The champagne bubbles burst on his tongue, but pleasantly, and he relaxes. “I didn’t anticipate how crowded it would be. I’m not accustomed to such mobs.” But he thinks of how barren Heaven is, and wonders which situation is worse, really.

“Well, we can stay here, then.” Crowley takes the bottle back.

“If you’d rather... I don’t know, mingle...” Aziraphale starts to say. However, Crowley pulls a face as if to say _don’t be daft_ , and he trails off. He smiles, grateful for his friend. “Well. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

They pass the bottle back and forth, catching up. Forty years have passed since they last spoke, though not on purpose. Work has taken them to different places, even if Aziraphale would prefer to stay in London all the time.

By the time they finish the champagne, he is feeling much improved. In fact, he is feeling downright chuffed with everything about this party. Especially Crowley.

“You look lovely,” he says suddenly. “I like your hair like that.”

Crowley grins at him, looking just tipsy enough to not scowl at being complimented. “You do? Good. I like it too. Took bloody forever to get it done, but I managed.”

“You’ve outdone yourself. Not to say your hair doesn’t always look lovely, because it does, but...” Aziraphale smiles and tucks one of the curls behind Crowley’s ear. “It _really_ does tonight.”

Crowley’s eyes—the sunglasses having ended up on the chaise between them ages ago—light up. “You look good tonight too, Angel.”

Aziraphale doesn’t mean to blush, but the unexpected compliment and the alcohol make it impossible not to. Then, an idea occurs to him. “Dance with me.”

One of Crowley’s eyebrows creeps upward. “I dunno how.”

“Neither do I, but I’ve attended a few of these events. I think I know the steps in general by now. Come along.”

Crowley hesitates, then shrugs. “Thought angels didn’t dance, but a’right.”

Their hands brush as they stand, then intertwine. Crowley puts the sunglasses back on and grins, giving a little bow. “After you.”

They proceed out of the study into the corridor, then head for the ballroom. It’s crowded, but less so than the crowd Aziraphale left in the foyer. And Crowley’s grip on his hand helps.

One dance is ending, and so they join the other couples who are preparing for the next one.

They encounter one issue—neither of them has any idea what they’re doing.

They try to follow along, but quickly dissolve into giggles in the middle of the dance. Affronted looks surround them on all sides, and so Aziraphale tugs Crowley to the side, and they sway on the spot instead. Crowley is beaming, laughing so hard a lock of hair comes loose from the bun. Aziraphale watches, giggles, and simply enjoys the sensation of holding Crowley close. They’ve never been this close before, but now, with his inhibitions lowered, Aziraphale can admit to himself that he has wanted this.

Impulsively, he twirls Crowley, watching the movement of the dress as he does so. Crowley is clearly delighted, eyes alight behind the sunglasses, grip tight in Aziraphale’s. And Aziraphale cannot see anyone else; Crowley is the only being in all the universe who matters.

The dance ends, and before Aziraphale can realize what’s happening, Crowley has bent him backwards in an impromptu dip. It sets them both off laughing again, and Aziraphale stops himself at the last moment from burying his face in Crowley’s hair and staying there.

Crowley stands them back up as the other dancers disperse, and glances around at the murmuring crowd have thoroughly scandalized. “We better go before they kick us out.”

They link hands again and weave through to the edge of the room and a pair of doors that lead out to the estate’s garden. Aziraphale notices Crowley snatch another bottle of champagne from a table laden with food and drink, and he shakes his head in amusement.

The cold air helps to sober him almost immediately, so combined with the excitement of the dance, he no longer feels quite so intoxicated as he follows Crowley. They follow the path until the lights from the estate no longer illuminate it, then step onto the grass. A thin layer of frost covers everything, but there is no wind. As they get farther from the building, a hush seems to fall over the garden.

“Where are we going?” Aziraphale asks.

“I’ve been here before,” Crowley explains. “There’s a quiet spot. Figured you wouldn’t want to stay inside, and it’s peaceful out here.”

“You’ve been here?”

“Oh, yeah.” Crowley shrugs. “Had a temptation to do here. Convince the owner of the place to invest in some dodgy operations in London.”

Aziraphale glances at the opulent landscaping, uneasy now that he knows they’ve been funded by questionable sources. Crowley hurries on, “He’ll get what’s coming to him, though. I heard your side is sending someone to… Wait. Is that why you’re here?”

Aziraphale slows, fixing Crowley with his best holier-than-thou expression. “Yes, in fact it is. That, and his daughter is a kind young woman. I thought I could help her with the sticky situation she’s in, wanting to run away with that gentleman her family dislikes. But, officially, yes, I’m here to deal with her father. No thanks to you.”

But Crowley smiles, and it’s surprisingly earnest. “Well, I can’t complain. We got to see each other again, didn’t we?”

Aziraphale blinks, but before he can decide upon a response, Crowley steps around a tall bush and gestures grandly. “Here we are!”

A tall apple tree stands in the center of a clearing, surrounded by more sculpted bushes. At the base of the tree’s trunk stands a stone bench.

“An apple tree? Really?”

Crowley sits on the bench and shrugs one shoulder. “Coincidence, I guess. Poetic, though, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale sits too and shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“How?”

“You know. Bringing me out here, under an apple tree to tempt me with champagne and… and your wiles.”

Crowley snorts. “Right, sure. So you don’t want any more champagne then?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Crowley chuckles and pops the cork and watches with amusement as the fizzy trail splatters on the frosty ground. “Here you go then, you do-gooder.”

Aziraphale musters a faux-scowl, but drinks anyway. They resume passing the bottle back and forth, chatting about nothing. Aziraphale finds himself distracted by Crowley’s lips. How has the red lip salve not been washed away by the champagne? Crowley must have performed a miracle to achieve this. That, or Crowley’s lips have always been so red, and Aziraphale has somehow never noticed before. Perhaps it’s the lighting, the moon bouncing off the frost.

“So then, I said to Hastur… Angel, are you even listening to me?”

Aziraphale shakes himself and meets Crowley’s gaze. “Oh. No, my dear, I’m sorry. I suppose I was lost in thought.”

One side of Crowley’s mouth quirks up. “So inconsiderate.” The words are teasing and light, though.

“Sorry.”

“It’s all right.” Crowley picks up the bottle, takes another gulp, then hands it to Aziraphale. “All yours, if you want it.”

Aziraphale takes it but doesn’t take his eyes off Crowley. Crowley, whom he’s missed so much these last forty years, more than he expected. And why? They’ve been separated for longer. But perhaps by now, he’s grown so accustomed to having Crowley around, the time apart has become harder.

He drains the last of the champagne.

“You know,” he says, summoning all the courage he possesses, “you don’t need to wear your sunglasses out here. Surely you can’t see anything.”

“Easier that way,” Crowley murmurs. “Y’know, otherwise they’d think I’m some kind of monster. It’s just easier to hide.”

Aziraphale understands that, he really does. He’s seen throughout the years how people have recoiled upon seeing Crowley’s slit-pupiled eyes, horrified cries and curses trailing after. Still… “You don’t have to hide from me, do you?” Aziraphale asks.

The words hang in the air between them. They both have gone still, and then, Crowley reaches up and removes the sunglasses, sets them on the bench. “No, I don’t.”

Aziraphale gazes into those eyes, which are so comfortably familiar even when they should be dreadful. And that’s when he realizes—Crowley isn’t looking back into his eyes. Crowley is looking at Aziraphale’s lips.

That is all it takes for Aziraphale to lean forward, to cradle Crowley’s chin in his hand. An inch away, he whispers, “May I…?”

Crowley’s nod is near-imperceptible, but it is enough.

Aziraphale presses their lips together.

The kiss starts soft, with Crowley frozen as if amazed this is happening, despite the warning. Then, Crowley responds, pressing into Aziraphale with a sound he might call a whimper. Crowley’s lips part, and Aziraphale deepens the kiss. He fancies the champagne tastes even better on Crowley’s tongue.

Crowley slides closer, and the empty champagne bottle falls to the ground with a clatter. They ignore it, Aziraphale too occupied with exploring how delightful the silk of Crowley’s dress feels under his hands.

When they break apart, Crowley’s chest is heaving. Between the kiss—Aziraphale’s hand also had found its way into those soft curls—and the dance, the elaborate bun has all but collapsed, so Crowley’s hair is loose and flowing.

“Why haven’t we done _that_ before?”

Aziraphale laughs, exhilarated. “So… you’re not opposed to doing it again?”

Crowley grins, wicked and euphoric, and tugs Aziraphale close with his lapels. “Opposed?” The word is mostly air against Aziraphale’s mouth. “Nah. Honestly, I think the Arrangement just got a lot more fun.”


	28. Snowball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barcelona doesn't see snow often, so Crowley teaches the children how to properly have fun with it.

Barcelona, 1812

The children are shrieking in the park, darting and dancing and dashing about. One girl rushes by, arms held aloft. “This is amazing!” she squeals in Catalan.

Aziraphale watches from a bench, smiling. The entire city has practically shut down to experience the rare snowfall. Most of the children have never seen snow, and the looks of incredulous wonder in their faces bring joy to Aziraphale.

“Bloody cold,” a voice says in English beside him, and he looks around.

“Crowley, my dear!” He grins. “What are you doing here?”

“At the moment, freezing.” Crowley sits next to him, huddling in a dark coat and rubbing his hands.

“Poor serpent,” Aziraphale says and slides closer. “It really isn’t too bad. Could be windy.”

“Ugh, don’t even talk about that.” Crowley leans against Aziraphale, and both watch the children play. “I’m here because of Napoleon. You too?”

“I am,” Aziraphale nods. “I’m here to ensure this all goes well, that there isn’t any bloodshed.”

“Well, I’m here to sow some discord,” Crowley says with a chuckle. “Sounds like another one of those instances where we should have both stayed home.”

“Probably,” Aziraphale has to concede, “but I do enjoy this.” He gestures at the children still playing in the streets. “Look how happy they are.”

Crowley regards them, then smiles. “It is nice, I suppose. Just wish it weren’t so bloody cold.”

Aziraphale shakes his head and puts an arm around Crowley’s shoulders. He knows he’s making his distress out to be worse than it really is, but Aziraphale doesn’t mind.

A few of the children have started throwing snow at each other, and Crowley groans.

“No, no, come on, that’s not right.” He stands, strides forward, and catches a boy by the arm. “This is better,” he explains in Catalan. It isn’t a good accent; his pronunciation is a bit off, but it still  _ does something _ to Aziraphale.

“What?” the boy asks.

“Try this,” Crowley says. “Don’t just fling the snow. You need to pack it, see?”

He shows the boy how to form the snow into a ball. A few other children approach, listening, and then—

All hell breaks loose.

The children quickly choose sides, and the snowballs fly. Aziraphale laughs when Crowley is caught up in it all, throwing snowballs with the rest of them. He switches sides several times, gives tips on strategy, and at one point, guides a girl who’s fallen and cut her knee out of the  chaos.

The battles goes on for much longer than Aziraphale expected, but it seems when children discover the joys of a snowball fight, they cannot be easily dissuaded from stopping.

Eventually, though, a truce is called, and several parents emerge from inside to coax their children home. Crowley makes his way back over toward Aziraphale, looking rather devastatingly gorgeous. His hair is a mess, and there’s snow dusting his shoulders. But his eyes are alight with merriment and mischief, and he grins at Aziraphale.

The expression brings out a bit of mischief in Aziraphale as well, for when a shriek of laughter at the end of the street draws Crowley’s attention away, Aziraphale snaps his fingers. A snowball appears in his hand, and he hits Crowley in the face with it.

“Oi!” Crowley shouts, staggering back. “You’re such a bastard, Angel.”

But he’s grinning, and when he collapses onto the bench beside Aziraphale, he kisses him fiercely, tasting of laughter and snow.

“I couldn’t resist,” Aziraphale says, chuckling.

Crowley shoves him away, shaking his head in faux-offense. But he immediately leans against Aziraphale again, and starts brushing the snow off his clothes. Aziraphale watches, almost aching with fondness.

“Are you still cold?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Crowley says, “but like you said, I do enjoy this.” He gestures at the snow-covered park, at the few children who still dart around, at Aziraphale.

“So do I, my dear,” Aziraphale says, smiling. “So do I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Not sure if it actually snowed in Barcelona in 1812, but I’m going with it anyway.


	29. Glitter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale makes Very Camp Peppermint Bark. I'm sorry for what's about to ensue.

Crowley walks into the kitchen one afternoon, lured by the smell of chocolate. He stops short. “Seriously?” he asks. “Glitter?”

“What’s wrong with that?” Aziraphale asks, not turning around. He continues shaking the bottle.

“Is it even edible?”

Aziraphale scoffs. “Of course. It’s mostly sugar.” He glances over his shoulder. “I thought you invented glitter.”

“Yeah, but not to eat!” It was one of his proudest creations—glitter has the allure of being nice to look at, but impossible to get rid of. Not to mention the environmental concerns. (However, he cannot help but approve of David Bowie’s use of it for fashion. Then again, his approval might just be of David Bowie...)

“Well, humans are clever,” Aziraphale points out.

“I’ll give you that,” Crowley concedes, amused. “But what recipe could you possibly be reading that requires glitter?”

“Peppermint bark,” Aziraphale replies, sounding delighted. “Though the recipe doesn’t call for it. I’ve decided to add it.”

Crowley frowns, not understanding. “But peppermint doesn’t have bark? It’s an herb.”

Aziraphale laughs and turns at last to face Crowley, eyes twinkling with mirth. “Oh, darling, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh. It’s not actual bark, come here.” He gestures, and Crowley moves to stand at his side. Aziraphale has melted two layers of chocolate, dark and white—that explains the smell, at least—and poured it into a rimmed tray. On top, he’s added crushed peppermint, and of course, the glitter. The entire thing is sparkling red-and-green-and-silver, and it does look appetizing, despite the glitter, which still does not look edible to Crowley.

“See?” Aziraphale adds a bit more glitter to a rather bare corner.

“Does look good,” Crowley admits. He reaches for it, but Aziraphale tugs his hand away.

“It still has to set, my dear.”

Crowley scowls. “You could just miracle it, you know.”

“But that’s not as fun!”

It’s an old argument, one they’ve repeated many times since they moved out of London and Aziraphale got into cooking. But it still makes Aziraphale laugh, to hear how indignant Crowley’s voice gets whenever he hears he can’t immediately eat whatever it is Aziraphale is making.

(Crowley isn’t actually that irked anymore; this conversation has practically become flirting by now.)

“Oh, fine.” Crowley stalks away, making sure to swing his hips just so, so Aziraphale will notice. “I guess you’ll have to entertain me some other way,” he proclaims, sitting at the island.

Aziraphale is blushing, and he glances away, fighting a smile. “I have another batch of this to finish, actually.”

“Bloody hell, how much are you making?”

“Enough to satisfy your sweet tooth,” Aziraphale says, tone just this side of cheeky.

“Oi, and yours!” Crowley smirks. Then, simply to be ironic, plucks a candy cane off the counter. It’s clearly an extra, but now that Crowley is thinking about sweets, he wants one. He unwraps it and sticks the end in his mouth, checking his phone.

Aziraphale continues to work, melting another batch of chocolate and sprinkling more crushed mints and glitter on top. At one point, though, when he’s facing Crowley, his breath catches audibly in his chest.

“You okay, Angel?” Crowley asks, pulling the candy cane from between his lips to speak, not looking up from his Twitter feed.

Aziraphale swallows. “Fine,” he says, more breathy than usual.

Crowley glances up, but Aziraphale spins on his heel before he can get a good look. The tips of his ears are pink, and Crowley wonders why. But, if something is bothering Aziraphale, he knows he’ll find out what it is eventually. So he goes back to Twitter, where there’s a rather interesting debate going on about some politician. And though Crowley has technically quit doing demonic work, he cannot resist sowing a little more discontent, especially in this arena. It’s just so easy to get the white supremacists fired up, and even easier to poke holes in their arguments.

He sucks the end of the candy cane back into his mouth as he types out a particularly devastating tweet, and this time, Aziraphale nearly drops the tray of peppermint bark.

Crowley whips his head up. “What’s wrong?”

Aziraphale’s face is scarlet, and he nearly dives headfirst into the open refrigerator to hide his face, then takes far too long arranging the tray inside. “Do you... do you have to do that?” he mutters.

“Do what?” Crowley can’t imagine what Aziraphale is so affected by. He isn’t actively trying to seduce him at the moment, having decided to wait until after he gets to eat some peppermint bark. So, why...?

He adjusts the candy cane’s position in his mouth with his tongue, and Aziraphale actually _squeaks_.

Oh.

Oh!

Crowley starts to smirk. He pulls the candy cane out, making sure to take his time about it, and to run his tongue over the tip. “You all right?” he asks, innocent as can be. “You look flushed.”

Aziraphale tries to glare, but doesn’t quite succeed when Crowley licks up the length of the candy cane, triumphant.

“This...” Aziraphale takes a breath to dispel the quaver from his voice, then tries again. “This won’t make the peppermint bark set faster, you know.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Another lick, punctuated by a soft sigh.

“That!” Aziraphale points at the candy cane with his free hand, his other pressed over his eyes. He peeks, though, as Crowley slides the candy cane back in his mouth with what he knows must look like agonizing slowness.

“I’m just eating a snack,” Crowley says, after withdrawing the candy cane at the same speed. He puts his lips back around it, this time gazing at Aziraphale through his lashes in a way he knows drives his angel absolutely mad.

It works. Aziraphale lets out a cry, and, cheeks still aflame, snaps his fingers. Both batches of peppermint bark appear on the counter, chilled and set and delicious-looking.

“There, happy?” he demands, storming around the island toward Crowley.

Crowley grins and stands to meet him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Aziraphale snatches the candy cane from his mouth, drops it on the counter, and jerks Crowley flush against him, the words muffled between their mouths. “You, Anthony Crowley, are a menace.”


	30. Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faced with spending the holidays alone, Aziraphale and Crowley each make a decision.

London, December 1977

Crowley has been away from England for months, so coming home to find it looks like Christmas has vomited all over London is an unpleasant surprise. He scowls as he walks away from the Bentley toward his flat, surrounded by fairy lights and uncreative Christmas music. Ugh, he should have stayed away for longer, just until this is over.

Then again, he’s missed being home. He’s just spent half a year halfway around the world, having been sent away unexpectedly. He didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale.

More than missing home, he’s missed Aziraphale. Things have been strained between them this past decade, ever since he’d given Crowley the holy water and fled. Crowley’s reached out a few times, but can tell Aziraphale isn’t entirely comfortable. He misses their easy camaraderie, the way Aziraphale’s smiles are genuine just for him.

He realizes he’s ended up on the sidewalk outside his flat. But as he looks up at the building, he finds that he doesn’t want to go in, not to a flat devoid of comfort. He wants the cozy chaos of the bookshop, wants Aziraphale to make them a cup of tea, and for them to try to continue mending this rift Crowley has created between them.

So, resolved, he turns on his heel and strides back to the Bentley.

— — —

Aziraphale plugs in the Christmas tree and smiles at it. Crowley had scoffed at the fact that it was fake, but Aziraphale finds it easier to deal with than a live one. Crowley’s always been the better gardener.

He sighs and shakes his head. Honestly, he doesn’t need to think about Crowley so often. They’re hardly good friends anymore, not after Aziraphale said… that.

_“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”_

What a fool he was. He’d seen the hurt on Crowley’s face, seen the longing, but had done nothing to ease it—he’d been too caught up in his own fear about the holy water.

And honestly, what had he been thinking? Crowley may be a demon, but Aziraphale _knows_ him. He trusts him. He wouldn’t do anything with it unless he absolutely had to. And yet Aziraphale had made it clear he was giving it against his will, almost out of spite. Ever since then, he’s been uncomfortable around Crowley in a way he’s never been. He misses how they used to be, the casual way they’d tease each other. Worst of all, he hasn’t even seen Crowley in months, unsure where he is, if he’s even in the country, let alone the city.

“Oh, for goodness sake,” he mutters. This has gone far enough. It’s the holidays; if he wants to see Crowley, he should stop… pining… and just go see if he’s at home.

— — —

By the time Crowley pulls the Bentley to a screeching halt in front of the bookshop, he’s afraid he’s about to discorporate out of nervousness. He isn’t sure why; he’s dropped by out of the blue many times—that’s his usual way of arriving in fact. But things are different now, and he’s been gone for months, and it’s been exhausting being alone for so many centuries. It’s been exhausting, he admits to himself, to reach out for Aziraphale and to only get scraps of what he truly wants in return.

Still, he’s here again, at Aziraphale’s door. Perhaps _this_ is the real punishment, not the Fall.

He climbs out of the car, but before he reaches the door, he can tell something is off. The lights in the bookshop are dimmed, save the Christmas tree twinkling merrily in one of the windows. The door is locked, he finds, and the sign is flipped to “Closed.”

“Angel?” he calls, knocking. “You home?”

He might be in the back, or he might be making tea and can’t hear over the whistling kettle. That’s what Crowley tells himself at first, but after knocking for another minute, he forces himself to confront the other possibility: that Aziraphale might hear him, but doesn’t want to see him.

Or he’s out. _Please just be out, Angel_ , he thinks.

He sits on the front step, sighing. The idea of returning to Mayfair is horrendous now, but so does staying here, locked outside of the thing he wants. Still, he stays, because where else is he going to go on Christmas? The holidays are, at least for humans, a time to be with family.

He drags his fingers through his hair, and lets the cold seep into him. Minutes pass, then nearly half an hour, and he doesn’t move. People pass by, holding hands, carrying gifts for loved ones, laughing together. He watches, and tries not to want those things too.

Then, a voice. “Crowley!”

— — —

Aziraphale can tell before he even gets inside the flat that Crowley isn’t home. But he thought he could smell his familiar scent in the air outside, as if he’s been here recently. He tries to swallow his disappointment that he missed him. Holidays are a time for family, for reconciliation, or so he’s heard.

Ah, well. He supposes he’ll see Crowley soon, but not now.

So he returns home, watching the families and friends together on the streets of London. There is so much laughter and love in the air, though those emotions are undercut by a quiet current of grief and loneliness that always seems inevitable during this season especially. He soaks in the emotions, and feels them reflected in himself.

At least, until he rounds the corner, and sees Crowley on his doorstep.

“Crowley!” he cries, grinning, his strides lengthening.

Crowley looks up. His sunglasses are pushed up onto his head, and his amber eyes are wide in surprise. He looks tired, and concern wells up in Aziraphale.

“My dear,” he says, “is everything all right? Where have you been?”

“At work,” Crowley says, standing. He sounds tired, too. “Sorry. Didn’t have time to say bye before I left.”

“You’ve had work all this time?” Aziraphale feels a strange sense of relief; at least they haven’t drifted apart entirely by choice.

Crowley shrugs. Aziraphale reaches him and stands before him, affection surging up within him.

 _I said you go too fast_ , he thinks, _but you’ve been waiting for me, I see that now. I’m sorry I’ve been so foolish. I’ll be better_.

And with that resolution, he reaches out. His hand finds Crowley’s. “I’ve missed you,” he says.

Crowley stares down at their linked hands, as if he can’t comprehend what’s happening. Then, he squeezes back, a touch that sends a thrill through Aziraphale. “Missed you too,” Crowley mutters, then sighs. “Sorry, I’m being ridiculous. You were probably out running errands, aren’t ready for company…” He pulls his hand free, and starts to turn away.

“No!” Aziraphale cries. “No, not at all. Did you need something?”

The moment he says it, he regrets it. That sounds as if he believes Crowley to only come around when he needs something, not because they’ve been friends for millennia. Crowley swallows, eyes dropping to the sidewalk, and Aziraphale longs to tilt his chin back up.

“No, just… I dunno.”

Aziraphale catches him by the arm before he can retreat fully. “Crowley,” he says. They’re on a precipice, and suddenly Aziraphale knows it. Ten years ago, he’d jerked them backward in one direction, slowed them down, but now it’s high time he pushed and let their momentum carry them over the ledge.

So he shifts closer and says, “I’m glad you’re here. Would… would you like to come inside? It is Christmas after all.”

Crowley starts to smile, a tentative thing. “Oh, really?” he says in a dry tone. “I hadn’t noticed.” He gestures around at the lights strung across the streets, around lamp posts.

Aziraphale chuckles. “Oh, you know what I mean. It’s a time to be with those you’ve been away from, and… I’ve missed you.”

Before he can second-guess himself, he gives into the urge he’s been suppressing for centuries; he leans forward and presses his lips to Crowley’s cheek.

Crowley stares in amazement, and then he really does smile, wide and more than a bit incredulous. “I don’t like being away from you, Angel,” he says.

“Then don’t be. Come inside.” Aziraphale cradles Crowley’s cheek, then his jaw, and feels Crowley lean into the touch, feels his lips press a small kiss to Aziraphale’s palm.

“Yeah,” Crowley breathes, “yeah, okay.”

So Aziraphale pulls him inside the bookshop, locks the door behind him, and lets Crowley fall into his arms, both of them laughing in relief and delight. As Crowley presses joyfully disbelieving kisses to his face, Aziraphale makes himself a promise. If he has anything to say about it, they will always trust each other— _be_ with each other—like this.


	31. Auld Lang Syne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley wakes up to a new year.

Most of the time, Crowley wakes quickly. Over the millennia, he’s grown used to having to be on guard, from angels or demons or the end of the world. However, since the end of the world fizzled out so spectacularly, and he and Aziraphale escaped their fates through subterfuge, he’s been sleeping easier, waking slower.

So it shouldn’t surprise him when he finally manages to blink open his bleary eyes to find that it’s morning.

“’Zira…?” is all he manages to say, face still mashed in the pillow.

“Good morning, dear,” Aziraphale says. Hands come to rest on Crowley’s sides, and lips press to his shoulder as Aziraphale pulls him back against his chest.

“I fell asleep?”

Aziraphale chuckles. “You did, at about half eleven.”

That’s when Crowley remembers what day it is. “Oh, shit,” he says. “So I missed the fireworks?”

He’s always loved fireworks, ever since the first time he saw them back in the early 1100s, during a celebration in China. They’re loud and wild and fiery and passionate. Messy and violent, too, but bright and joyful. He adores them, rather in the same way he sometimes adores humans.

Aziraphale seems to pick up on his disappointment, judging from the way he squeezes Crowley a bit tighter. “You did. I’m sorry, my dear, I should have woken you before midnight…”

“It’s okay,” Crowley says with a sigh. “I’ve seen fireworks before.”

He starts to sit up, starts to wish Aziraphale a happy new year, starts to suggest they make some tea—but Aziraphale pulls him back down into the embrace, into the warm cocoon of the bedding.

“Wait,” he says, and Crowley does. Aziraphale has that tone, that soft yet determined tone that sends expectant sparks of electricity to the very tips of Crowley’s limbs. That tone promises good things, especially in this setting.

Aziraphale does kiss him, tenderness and tongue and temptation that an angel shouldn’t be able to manifest. “What if I have a surprise for you?” he asks.

Crowley exhales, clutching at Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Does it involve you kissing me like that again?”

“Oh, eventually,” Aziraphale slides away with a smirk. Then, to Crowley’s horror, he gets out of bed.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, grasping at Aziraphale’s wrist. “You tease.”

Aziraphale tugs himself free, chuckling. “I’ll be right back.” He doesn’t go far, only stepping across the room to tug the deep red curtains across the tall windows. The room goes dark, then even darker when Aziraphale closes the door. Crowley lies still, listening to Aziraphale’s quiet tread across the carpet back towards the bed. Not knowing what to expect is exciting, and so he has to fight back an intense surge of disappointment when all Aziraphale does is sit next to him, putting an arm around his shoulders.

But in the next moment, Aziraphale snaps his fingers, and lights fill the room.

No, not just lights, Crowley realizes. Tiny fireworks, with all the popping and sparking and squealing and crackling of the full-size kind. They’re all colors, all styles, a wild lightshow worthy of the Thames, or Times Square, or Dubai.

Crowley turns to stare at Aziraphale in wonder, and Aziraphale glances at him, shy but smug. “Happy New Year, dearest,” he says.

 _Oh_ , Crowley thinks, watching as the fireworks make Aziraphale’s eyes sparkle, _how I adore you_.

He kisses him, one hand cradling his chin and the other tugging at his soft hair. The fireworks continue around them, their lights dancing across their skin, and this is better than any New Year’s kiss at midnight at a party, Crowley decides. Because this firework show is all theirs, a miracle in miniature, and this moment is all theirs, a declaration of love. Before Aziraphale—though, admittedly, not much of his existence took place before Aziraphale—he never imagined anything like this. He never knew he could be… cherished in this way.

“Happy New Year, Aziraphale,” he says.

Aziraphale’s lips curl into a smile beneath Crowley’s. “So is this an acceptable substitute for missing the show last night?”

Crowley nods. He moves his lips from Aziraphale’s mouth to his jaw, his throat, his collarbone, feeling wicked and buoyant with affection. “More than acceptable,” he says, and nips at the sensitive spot where Aziraphale’s neck meets his shoulder.

“Good,” Aziraphale says, stammering only slightly. His hands rest, then tighten, on Crowley’s hips.

Crowley smirks. “Now it’s my turn to make _you_ see stars, Angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am astounded I finished this challenge on time, considering how busy I've been this past month. But I love these idiotic angels, and the words kind of just flooded out of me. I couldn't have done any of this without the amazing drawlight, for coming up with this advent, and the wonderful elizabethelizabeth, for providing support and insight in the drafting stages of everything I write.
> 
> Thank you if you left kudos, commented, or bookmarked. But most of all, thank you, thank you, thank you for reading, even if you only read one fic.
> 
> I have so many more Good Omens ideas to work on, including the full version of "Ghosts," so I'll be seeing you soon!


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